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THE   DEAD   CITY 


GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 


The  Dead  City 


A  Tragedy 

by  Gabriele  d'Annunzio 


2,rvs.  unconquereU  in  strife  *  *  * 
—  Sophocles. 


Rendered  into  English  by  Prof.  G. 
Mantellini.  Illustrations  from  the 
stage  production  of  Eleonora  Duse 
made   expressly  for   this   work. 

Second  Edition 


Laird  &  Lee,  Cbica8:o 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1905!, 

By  WILLIAM  H.  LEE, 

In  the  o£Bce  of   the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at 

WasbinKtoo,  D.  C. 


College 
library 


SKETCH  OF  LA  DUSE 

When  "La  Duse,"  in  1893,  made  her  first  tour 
through  the  United  States  under  the  management 
of  Carl  and  Theodor  Rosenfeld,  playing '  'Camille," 
"The  Wife  of  Claudius,"  "Cavalleria  Rusticana," 
"Fedora,"  "Divorgons,"  "La  Locandiera,"  and 
other  plays,  she  was  simply  the  greatest  trage- 
dienne of  Italy,  where  all  people  knew  her  name 
and  fame ;  and  where  no  one  thought  of  compar- 
ing another  artiste  to  her.  Since  then  ten  years 
have  passed  and  her  fame  and  glory  have  spread 
all  over  the  world. 

Those  who,  know  Eleonora  Duse  mention  her 
age  and  beauty.  She  is  now  thirty-eight  years  old, 
but  who  can  say  whether  she  is  beautiful  or  not? 
On  the  stage  she  is  beautiful,  but  she  is  homely 
too ;  she  is  tall  and  she  is  small ;  she  is  young  and 
old;  awkward  and  delicate;  apathetic  and  nerv- 
ous. She  is  whatever  her  part  demands.  What 
no  artiste  before  her  possessed  is  hers.  She  has  an 
incomparable  power  over  her  nerves  and  muscles. 
In  sinking  her  personality  in  the  poet's  conception 
she  fascinates,  almost  hypnotizes  us.  But  it  is 
hard,  almost  impoasible,  to  suggest  an  idea  of  this 


olO^SOl 


THE     DEAD     CITY 


wonderful  woman,  who  seems  to  have  effaced  the 
boundary  that  separates  nature  from  art. 

Who  is  Eleonora  Duse? 

She  was  born  at  Vigcvano,  a  small  town  in 
Lombardy.  Her  talent  is  hereditary,  her  father 
and  grandfather  having  been  actors  of  no  mean 
ability.  The  grandfather,  Luigi  Duse,  was  thor- 
oughly legitimate  in  ,his  work.  He  recited  in 
Venetian  dialect,  a  new  departure  in  those  days. 
The  Duses  established  the  Garibaldi  Theater  at 
Padua. 

The  life  of  Eleonora  Duse,  the  granddaughter, 
has  been  one  of  bitter  struggles  against  poverty 
and  unfavorable  environment.  But  the  practice 
of  the  stage  was  her  first  school,  her  initiation  into 
artist  life  was  her  education;  she  is  an  actress 
from  infancy.  Perhaps  never  in  the  days  of  her 
childhood  did  Eleonora  Duse  say,  "I  want  to  be 
an  actress."  Perhaps  no  sympton  of  that  irre- 
sistible desire  which  is  the  usual  beginning  of 
every  triumphant  career,  foretold  to  her  the  glory 
that  to-day  sweetens  the  memory  of  her  sorrowful 
youth. 

She  was  scarcely  twelve  years  old  when  she  was 
working  almost  day  and  night  upon  the  stage  in 
obscure  theaters,  those  grotesque  and  sad  asylums 
of  inferior  companies.     Her  wages  represented  the 


SKETCH    or    LA    DUSE  111 

most  important  item  in  the  income  of  her  not  well 
to-do  family.  Those  were  days  of  toil  and  suffer- 
ing, when,  weak  from  lack  of  sufficient  food,  she 
had  to  undergo  the  exhausting  fatigues  of  the 
stage,  and  her  chief  reward  was  the  applause  of 
an  audience  richer  in  emotions  than  in  gold  or  sil- 
ver. Nor  was  she  compensated  by  being  feted  as 
an  infant  wonder.  Indeed,  she  was  almost  com- 
pelled to  conceal  her  youth  from  both  manager  and 
public,  lest  it  might  produce  a  doubt  in  their  minds 
whether  the  repertoire  of  dramas  and  tragedies 
were  entirely  suited  to  her  tender  years.  The 
pressing  need  of  money  weighed  not  only  on  her 
genius  but  on  her  mind  and  spirits  which,  notwith- 
standing the  suffering  of  a  life  of  toil,  were  natu- 
rally gay,  due  to  the  open-air  exercise  and  the 
mirth  and  mischief  of  a  noisy  company.  Still  she 
developed  force  and  spirit.  She  combined  the 
manner  of  the  adult  woman  with  that  of  the 
thoughtful  child.  Almost  unknown  to  herself  she 
became  absorbed  in  her  part,  and  the  woman  inoc- 
ulated the  child  with  strong  emotions,  which 
deprived  her  gestures,  her  face  and  her  voice  of  all 
childishness,  thrilled  her  audiences  and  caused  her 
companions  to  wonder.  The  germ  of  a  great 
actress  was  growing  in  the  little  wandering  come- 
dienne. 


IV  THE     DEAD     CITY 

When  representing  Silvio  Pellico's  "Francesca 
da  Rimini,"  and  "Caverina"  in  Victor  Hugo's 
"Tyrant  of  Padua,"  she  divined  rather  than  com- 
prehended, the  meaning  of  these  two  poets,  but 
she  aroused  a  wild  enthusiasm,  which  marked  not 
simply  the  girl  prodigy,  but  a  phenomenal  promise 
of  future  greatness. 

After  Victor  Hugo  she  turned  her  attention  to 
Shakespeare,  whom  she  understood  perfectly. 
Her  "Juliet"  is  a  masterpiece  in  blending  sweet- 
ness and  passion. 

At  this  time  Eleonora  Duse,  as  yet  but  little 
known  in  Italy,  made  a  tour  of  Dalmatia,  but,  as 
before,  in  the  minor  theaters  only.  Even  in  this 
strange  land  she  was  successful.  On  the  pictur- 
esque shores  of  the  Adriatic  she  found  and  enjoyed 
all  the  beauties  of  nature,  but  the  turning-point 
in  her  career  had  not  been  reached 

By  a  strange,  whimsical  fate  she,  the  dreamer  of 
silent,  sleepy,  and  most  melancholy  Venice  was 
first  comprehended  and  recognized  as  a  great 
actress  in  Naples,  the  gayest  and  most  beautiful 
of  Italian  cities.  In  this  metropolis  where  the 
theater  has  most  ancient  and  honorable  traditions, 
Eleonora  Duse  found  an  intelligent  appreciation 
of  her  genius. 

After  this,  her  incomparable  success  as  a  great 


SKETCH    OF    LA    DUSE 


tragedienne  was  assured.  She  won  triumphs  on 
all  the  large  stages  of  Italy,  and  finally,  crossing 
the  Alps  with  an  Italian  company  playing  in  that 
language,  she  gathered  new  laurels  and  amazed 
the  severest  French  critics  in  Paris,  arousing  an 
enthusiasm  never  equalled  since  the  time  of  the 
great  Ristori.  After  France,  she  continued  her 
triumphant  tour  through  Germany,  Austria,  Rus- 
sia, Bulgaria  and,  as  already  mentioned,  through 
the  United  States. 

She  resuscitated  Dumas'  "La  Femme  de 
Claude,"  and  caused  it  to  be  applauded  by  the 
public  that  had  formerlj-^  condemned  it. 

She  re-created  jn  an  exquisite  manner  "Mairguer- 
ite  Gautier,"  that  always  fascinating  heroine  of 
the  same  author. 

At  will  she  passes  from  nervousness  to  the 
solemnity  of  philosophy,  arbitrarily  applied  to  the 
theater;  and  from  philosophy  to  the  merry 
coquetry  of  Parisian  comedy,  artistic  as  in  "Fran- 
cillon,"  risque  as  in  "Divorgons."  From  Parisian 
comedy  she  turned  to  the  purely  Italian  art  of 
Goldoni,  who  discovered  a  new  type  of  youth,  of 
happy  and  smiling  beauty  in  the  delicious  sim- 
plicity of  her  acting. 

Eleonora  Duse,  the  unerring  portrayer  of  the 
truth,    has    never    renounced    and    never    will 


VI  THE    DEAD    CITY 

renounce  upon  the  stage  that  perfect  charm 
which  Alexander  Dumas  in  one  of  his  brilliant 
prefaces  pronounces  to  be  more  necessary  on  the 
stage  than  truth. 

If  Gabriele  d'Annunzio,  after  having'  gained 
fame  as  a  psychological  novelist,  became  a  dra- 
matic writer,  it  is  to  Duse  that  we  owe  his  change 
of  methods.  It  was  Duse's  naturalistic  art  that 
Inspired  d'Annunzio  to  write  for  her  "Un  sogno 
d'una  Notte  d'Estate".(A  Summer  Night's  Dream), 
"La  Gioconda,"  "LaCitta  Morta"(The  Dead  City) 
and  finally,  "Francesca  da  Rimini,"  which  no  one 
but  Duse  and  perhaps  Sarah  Bernhardt  could 
interpret. 

In  "The  Dead  City,"  Eleonora  Duse  takes  the 
part  of  Anna,  the  blind  woman,  a  part  of  renunci- 
ation ;  the  part  of  a  resigned  soothsayer,  as  in  "La 
Gioconda" ;  her  task,  as  the  poet  Gabriele  d'An- 
nunzio expresses  it,  "is  to  speak  of  all  the  beauti- 
ful things  in  the  shadow  of  an  antique  statue." 
And  Duse  speaks  of  these  beautiful  things  with 
the  sweetest  music  of  her  voice,  which  encircles 
the  beautiful  phrases,  as  precious  gems  in  a  golden 
setting,  and  makes  them  glitter  in  all  their 
splendor.  .  .  .  — The  Translator. 


DRAMATIS   PERSON AE 

axessandro, 
Leonardo. 
Anna. 
BiANCA  Maria. 

Nurse. 


In  Argolis  "  the  thirsty  "  —  near  the   ruins  cf 
Mycenae    "rich  of  gold". 


ACT  FIRST 


THE   DEAD  CITY 


ACT   FIRST 

A  large,  light  roo7n,  ope?ii?ig  upon  a  loggia 
{piazza)  with  a  balustrade,  looking tozvard 
the  ancient  city  of  the  so7is  of  Pelops.  The  floor 
of  the  loggia  is  higher  than  that  of  the  room 
by  five  stone  steps  built  in  shape  of  a  trun- 
cated pyramid,  as  at  the  entrance  of  a  temple. 
Two  Doric  columns  support  the  architrave. 
Through  the  opening  is  seen  the  Acropolis 
with  its  ve7ierabte  Cyclopic  walls  broken  by 
the  Gate  of  Lions.  In  each  of  the  side  zualls 
of  the  room  there  are  tivo  exits  leading  to  the 
interior  aparttiients  atid  to  the  staircase.  A 
large  table  is  covered  with  papers,  booksy 
sfnall  statues  and  vases.  Everywhere,  along 
the  zvalls,  into  the  empty  spaces,  are  crowded 
statues^  bas  reliefs,  inscriptions,  sculptural 
fragments:  evidences  of  a  retru)te  life,  vestiges 
of  a  vanished  beauty.  The  presence  of  all 
these  white  objects  gives  to  the  room  a  brilliant 
and  severe,  almost  sepulchral  aspect,  in  the 
immobility  of  the  morning  light. 
II 


SCENE   I 

Anna,  seated  on  the  highest  of  the  steps 
leading  up  to  the  loggia,  her  head  resting 
agai?ist  the  shaft  of  a  column,  listens  in 
silence  to  Bianca  Maria,  who  reads  to  her. 
The  Nurse  is  seated  ofi  a  lower  step,  at  the 
feet  of  the  listener,  in  a  listless  attitude,  like  a 
patient  slave.  Bianca  Maria  is  standing, 
her  back  agaijist  the  other  column,  dressed  in 
a  kind  of  tunic,  simple  a?id  harmotnous  like  a 
peplum.  Holding  in  her  hands  an  open  book 
— Sophocles'  "A?itigotte," — she  reads  with  a 
slow  and  grave  intonation,  i?i  which  trembles 
now  and  then  a  vague  uneasiness,  that  does 
not  escape  the  notice  of  the  hearer.  The  sigm 
of  her  disquietude  and  anxiety  rouse  the  lat- 
ter's  attentioit  more  and  more. 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    I  I3 


BiANCA  Maria,  reads. 

"  O  Eros,  invincible  in  strife, 
"  Eros,  thou  who  hurlest  disasters, 
"  Who  in  the  soft  cheeks 
"  Of  the  maiden  liest  in  ambush, 
"Who    roamest    beyond     the     sea     and 
[through  the  rustic  cottages! 
"Neither  any  among  the  Immortals  can 

[escape  thee, 
"  Nor  any  of  the  short-lived  mortals;  and 
[whoever  has  thee  is  mad. 
"Thou  drivest  the  misguided  minds 
"  Of  the  just  to  ruin; 
"  And  thou  hast  also  to  this  strife 
"  Incited  blood  relations, 
"The  seductive  glance  from  the  eyes  ol 

[a  lovely  bride 
"  Wins  the  victory  over  the  greatest  laws, 
"Even  I   am  being   carried  beyond  the 

[pale  of  the  law 
"  Seeing  this;  nor  can  I  restrain 
"  Any  longer  the  fountains  of  my  tears 
"  Seeing  Antigone  on  her  way  to 
"The  nuptial  chamber  that  quiets  all. 


14  THE     DEAD     CITY 

^^  Antigo?ie. 

"Behold  me,    O  citizens  of    my   native 

[country 
"  Entering  upon  the  last  journey, 
"  Looking  at  the  splendor 
"  Of  the  sun  for  the  last  time, 
"  And  hence  forward  never  again!  Hades, 
[that  stills  everything,  conducts  me 
"To  the  shore  of  Acheron  alive 
"And  deprived  of  marriage. 
"  The  nuptial  hymn  shall  never  be 
'Sung  for  me;  for  I  am  to  espouse  Ach- 

[eron  .  .  . 
The  reader  stops  as  if  suffocat- 
ing.     The    book  shakes    in  her 
hands. 

Anna. 

Are  you    tired   from   reading,    Bianca 
Maria? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Perhaps    a    little   fatigued.    .  .  .    This 
dying   spring    is    so   hot    that   it    causes 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    I  I5 

weariness  and  suffocation  like  mid-sum- 
mer. .  .   .   Do  you  not  feel  it  too,  Anna? 

She  closes  the  book. 
Anna, 
Have  you  closed  the  book? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
I  have  closed  it. 

A  pause. 

Anna. 
Is  there  much  light  in  this  room? 

Bianca  Maria. 
Yes,  very  much. 

Anna. 
Is  the  sun  shining  on  the  loggia? 

Bianca  Maria. 
It  is  descending  on  the  column,  and  is 
about  to  touch  your  neck. 

Anna  lifts  one  hand  to  feel  of  the  column. 
There  it  is,  1  feel  it.     How  warm  the 


lb  THE    DEAD     CITY 

stone  is!  I  seem  to  touch  a  living  thing: 
.  .  .  Are  you  in  the  sun,  Bianca  Maria? 
Once  upon  a  time,  when  I  faced  its  rays 
with  mine  dead  eyes,  the  eyelids  open,  I 
used  to  see  something  like  a  red  vapor, 
scarcely  perceptible,  or  at  times  a  spark- 
ling similar  to  that  issuing  from  the  hard 
flint,  almost  painful.  .  .  .  Now,  nothing 
any  more:  perfect  darkness. 

Bianca  Maria. 
And  your  eyes  are  ever  beautiful  and 
clear,  Anna;  and  in  the  morning  they  are 
full  of  freshness,  as  if  sleep  were  dew  for 
them. 

Anna  covers  her  eyes  with  both  hands,  rest- 
ing her  elbows  on  her  knees. 

Ah,  the  waking,  every  morning,  what  a 
horror!  Almost  every  night  I  dream  that 
I  can  see,  dream  that  by  a  miracle  sight 
has  been  granted  to  my.  eyes.  .  .  And 
to  awake  always   in  darkness,  always  in 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE   I  1 7 

night.  ...  Of  nearly  all  things  I  have  a 
recollection,  of  the  things  I  saw  when 
still  in  the  light;  I  remember  their 
shapes,  their  colors,  their  most  minute 
particulars;  and  their  perfect  pictures  rise 
for  me  out  of  the  darkness,  as  soon  as  I 
touch  them  with  my  hands.  But  of  my 
own  person  I  have  only  a  confused  recol- 
lection as  of  one  dead.  A  deep  shadov/ 
has  fallen  upon  my  image;  time  has 
effaced  it,  as  it  effaces  in  us  the  pictures 
of  those  who  have  departed.  My  own 
image  has  vanished  from  me  like  the 
images  of  my  beloved  dead.  .  .  .  Every 
effort  is  in  vain.  I  know  well  that  the 
vision  I  finally  succeed  in  calling  up,  is 
not  my  true  self.  Ah,  how  sad!  You  tell 
her,  nurse,  how  many  times  I  have  asked 
you  to  conduct  me  before  the  mirror. 
There  I  remained  with  my  forehead 
against  the  glass — to  recollect,  held  by  I 
do  not  know  what  insensate  expectation. 


l8  THE    DEAD    CITY 

.  .  .  And  how  many  times  do  I  even 
press  my  hands  against  my  face — as  at 
present — to  obtain  its  imprint  in  their 
softness.  Ah,  at  times  I  seem  truly  to 
bear  imprinted  in  my  hands  my  faithful 
mask,  like  those  copied  in  plaster  from 
the  dead;  but  it  is  a  mask  without  life. 

Slowly  she   imcovers  her  face 

atid   stretches  forth    her  Jiollow 

hands. 
Do    you    realize   the    horror    of    such 
sorrow? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
How  beautiful  you  are,  Anna! 

Anna. 
Last  night  I  had  a  dream,  strange, 
indescribable.  A  sudden  old  age  seized 
all  my  limbs;  I  felt  over  all  my  body  the 
lines  of  wrinkles;  I  felt  my  hair  falling 
from  my  head  upon  my  lap  in  large 
masses,    and  my  fingers  were   interlaced 


ACT    FIRST,     SCENE    I  I9 

like  loose  straw;  my  gums  were  toothless, 
and  my  lips  were  drawn  in  over  the  gums, 
and  everything  in  me  had  become  shape- 
less and  miserable.  I  was  like  an  old 
beggar  woman  whom  I  used  to  know,  a 
poor  idiot  whom  I  used  to  see  every  day 
before  the  garden  fence  when  I  was  still 
at  home,  and  my  mother  was  yet  alive. 
Do  you  remember  her,  nurse?  She  was 
called  Simona,  and  always  mumbled  the 
same  song,  hoping  to  make  me  smile. 
.  .  .  It  was  a  strange  dream!  And  it 
corresponds  to  a  painful  sensation  that  I 
have  at  times,  when  I  listen  to  my  life 
slipping  by,  ...  In  silence  and  in  dark- 
ness, at  times,  I  listen  to  my  life  hasten- 
ing by  with  a  roar  so  terrible,  Bianca 
Maria,  that  I  would  gladly  die  to  hear  it 
no  more.     Ah,  you  cannot  understand! 

Bianca  Maria. 
I  understand,  Anna.    Even  in  the  light, 


THE     DEAD     CITY 


the  passing  hour  imparts  to  me  at  times 
an  almost  unbearable  anxiety.  It  seems 
that  we  arc  waiting  for  something  that 
will  never  happen.  Nothing  has  hap- 
pened, for  a  long  time. 

Anna. 
Who  knows! 

A  pause. 
I  do  not  feel  the  sun  any  longer. 

BiANCA  Maria,   turning  toward  the  loggia 
and  looking  at  the  sky. 

.  A  cloud  is  passing,  but  a  light  one:  a 
golden  cloud  in  the  shape  of  a  wing. 
Every  day  the  clouds  float  through  the 
azure  sky — arising  below,  from  the  gulf 
of  Argos,  and  moving  toward  Corinth. 
I  see  them  form  and  pass  away.  Some  of 
them  are  marvelous.  Sometimes  they 
remain  long  upon  the  horizon,  and  in  the 
evening   glow   like    funeral    pyres.     Yet 


ACT    FIRST      SCENE    I  21 

none  of  them  lets  fall  a  drop  of  water. 
All  the  country  is  thirsty.  Yesterday 
pilgrims  set  out  from  Carvati  for  the 
Chapel  of  the  Prophet  Elijah,  to  pray  for 
rain.  Everywhere  there  is  drought;  and 
the  wind  carries  the  dust  of  the  sepul- 
chres to  a  great  height. 

Anna. 
You  do  not  love  this  country,  do  you, 
Bianca  Maria? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
It  is  too  dreary.  Sometimes  it  seems 
to  me  almost  frightful.  When  my  brother 
and  myself,  for  the  first  time,  came  up  to 
Mycenae,  two  years  ago,  it  was  the  dawn- 
ing of  a  burning  August  day.  The  plain 
of  Argos  behind  us  was  a  sea  of  flame. 
The  mountains  were  tawny  yellow  and  as 
savage  as  lions.  We  ascended  on  foot, 
silent,  astonished,  almost  without  breath. 


THE     DEAD    CITY 


and  with  blinded  eyes.  From  time  to 
time  an  eddy  would  rise  from  the  edge  of 
the  path,  a  column  of  dust  and  withered 
grasses,  and  follow  us  noiselessly  with  the 
step  of  a  phantom.  Seeing  it  approach  I 
could  not  repress  an  instinctive  shudder, 
as  if  those  mysterious  shapes  could 
renew  the  terror  with  which  the  ancient 
crimes  had  inspired  me.  Upon  the  edge 
of  a  big  ditch  Leonardo  picked  up  the 
skin  of  a  snake  and  said  in  jest,  "This 
was  in  the  heart  of  Clytemnestra,"  and 
wound  it  around  my  hat  like  a  ribbon. 
Before  my  eyes  the  little  shining  tail 
swung  back  and  forth  with  the  rustle  of  a 
dry  leaf.  A  horrible  thirst  burned  my 
throat.  We  looked  for  the  fountain  of 
Perseus  in  the  valley  below  the  citadel. 
So  great  was  my  weariness  that  as  soon  as 
I  put  my  hands  and  lips  into  the  cool 
water,  I  fainted.  When  I  recovered  my 
senses,    I  appeared  to  be  in  dreamland, 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE   I  23 

out  of  this  world,  as  though  after  death. 
The  wind  raged  and  eddies  of  dust  pur- 
sued each  other  upon  the  height,  disap- 
pearing before  the  sun,  which  seemed  to 
devour  them.  A  boundless  sadness  fell 
upon  my  soul;  a  sadness  never  before 
experienced,  never  to  be  forgotten.  I 
thought  I  had  come  to  a  place  of  exile, 
from  which  there  was  no  return;  and 
everything  assumed,  in  my  eyes,  a  funereal 
aspect,  which  gave  me  a  vague  but  pain- 
ful presentiment.  ...  I  shall  never  forget 
that  hour,  Anna!  But  Leonardo,  full  of 
hope  and  courage,  supported  me  and 
dragged  me  along.  He  was  sure  of  finding 
his  princes,  the  Atridae,  intact  in  the 
buried  sepulchres.  He  said  to  me,  laugh- 
ing: "You  look  like  the  virgin  Iphi- 
genia  on  ""the  point  of  being  dragged  to 
the  sacrifice!"  But  his  gaiety  and  confi- 
dence did  not  bring  back  my  courage, 
.  .  .  You  see,  Anna,  that  every  day  hi* 


94  TIIE     DEAD    CllY 

expectation  has  remained  a  delusion. 
This  malignant  soil  that  he  turns  over 
without  rest,  has  given  him  so  far  only  the 
fever  that  consumes  him.  If  you  could 
see  him,  Anna,  you  would  feel  un- 
easy. .  .  . 

Anna. 
It  is  true.  His  voice  at  times  is  like  a 
smothered  flame.  Yesterday,  feeling  his 
emaciated,  parched  hand,  I  thought  he 
was  ill.  He  was  standing  next  to  me 
when  you  entered;  he  trembled  like  a 
man  in  fear.  While  you  were  there,  I  felt 
him  quiver  from  time  to  time,  as  if  your 
words  made  him  suffer.  I  have  a  very 
singular  intuition  about  such  things, 
Bianca  Maria.  My  eyes  are  closed  to 
my  soul,  but  it  hears.  It  heard  yesterday 
those  poor  nerves  that  were  suffering,  ah, 
so  much  pai-n.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
about  this,  Bianca  Maria. 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    I  3$ 

BiANCA  Maria,  with  evident  anxiety. 
Do    you    believe    that   my  brother   is 
really  ill? 

Anna. 
Perhaps  he  is  only  tired.     His  strength 
is  exhausted.     His  idea  torments  him  like 
a  passion.     Perhaps  he  does  not   sleep. 
Does  he? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
I  do  not  know,  Anna.  Sometime  ago 
he  abandoned  the  room  where  he  for- 
merly slept,  next  to  mine.  Before  that, 
I  knew  that  his  sleep  was  a  profound  one 
from  his  calm  breathing.  Now  he  is 
farther  away. 

Anna. 
Perhaps  he  does  not  sleep. 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Perhaps.     His  eyelids  are  inflamed  and 


a6  THE    DEAD    CITY 

red.  But  he  lives  continually  in  the 
midst  of  that  irritating  dust;  he  is  always 
there,  bending  over,  groping  in  the  ruins, 
digging  up  the  relics,  breathing  the  exha- 
lations from  the  sepulchres.  Oh,  what  a 
terrible  will  power  he  has.  I  am  certain 
that  he  will  not  take  any  rest  until  he  has 
wrung  from  the  earth  the  secret  that  he  is 
seeking. 

Anna. 

He  seems  to  have  a  secret  himself. 

BiANCA  Maria. 
What  secret? 

Anna. 
Who  knows! 

A  pause. 

Bianca  Maria. 
For  some   time   he    has   been   greatly 
changed.     He  was  so  loving  to  me,  oncQ. 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    I  27 

I  was  everything  to  him,  the  only  com- 
panion of  his  youth.  How  often  have  I 
seen  him  tired,  but  not  as  he  is  now.  He 
laid  his  very  soul  upon  my  knees,  like  a 
child.  But  no  longer.  When  I  go  near 
him  he  seems  to  shrink  into  himself. 
Formerly,  when  the  intenseness  of  his 
thought  made  his  head  ache,  he  would 
wish  me  to  hold  my  fingers  upon  his  tem- 
ples to  quiet  the  painful  throbbings,  and 
he  was  grateful  to  me,  as  for  a  delightful 
medicine.  But  no  longer.  He  seems  to 
avoid  me.  You  said,  Anna,  that  my 
words  yesterday  made  him  suffer.  .  .  . 

Anna,  witft  a  very  pointed  inflection. 

Perhaps  he  feels  that  there  is  a  change 
in  you,  Bianca  Maria. 

BiANCA  Maria,  troubled. 
In  me? 


28  THE    DEAD     CITY 

Anna,  with  the  same  inflection. 
Perhaps  he  divines  the  cause  of  your 
melancholy  and  is  worried  by  it. 

BiANCA  Maria. 
The  cause  of  my  melancholy? 

Anna,  veiling  the  pdntedncss  of  her  question. 
You  do  not  like  this  country,  and  you 
desire  to  depart. 

Bianca  Maria. 
I  am,   now  and  ever,   obedient  to  his 
will. 

Anna. 
There  is  the  sun  again.  Your  cloud  has 
vanished.  How  warm  it  is!  Almost 
scorching!  Give  me  your  hand,  please, 
Bianca  Maria.  Help  me  to  rise  and 
descend. 

Bianca  Maria  extends  her 
hand,  raises  Anna  arid  leads  her 
down  the  steps.    Anna,  still  hold- 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    I  29 

ing  her  hand  in  her  own  and 
drawing  near  to  her  as  if  to  listen 
to  the  palpitation  of  her  heart,  asks 
suddenly. 

Did  you  see  my  husband  this  morning 
before  he  went  out? 

BiANCA  Maria,  hesitating  an  itistant. 
Yes,     I    saw    him,     together   with    my 
brother. 

Anna. 
Do  you  know  where  he  has  gone? 

Bianca  Maria. 
He  had  his  horse  saddled  and  took  the 
road  to  Argos,  alone. 

Anna. 

He  has  not  cared  for  his  work  for  a 

longtime.     He  is  absent  many  long  hours; 

when  he  returns  he    is   silent.     Do   you 

remember,  Bianca  Maria,  the  first  weeks 


30  THE     DEAD     CITY 

after  our  arrival?  Do  you  remember  his 
ardor?  He,  too,  like  Leonardo,  had  great 
treasures  to  discover;  but  they  were  in 
his  own  soul.  It  seemed  as  if  this  land 
had,  above  all  others,  the  power  to  exalt 
his  mind.  The  flow  of  poetry  was  so 
abundant  in  him  that  he  would  pour  it 
out  continually,  almost  with  every  word. 
Do  you  remember?  Now  he  is  taciturn 
and  absorbed. 

BiANCA  Maria,  almost  with  trepidation. 

Perhaps  he  is  meditating  some  grand 
work.  Perhaps  he  carries  in  him  the 
weight  of  some  great  idea  still  unshaped. 
His  genius  may  be  about  to  give  life  to 
some  marvelous  creation. 

Anna. 
He    speaks    freely  with    you,    Bianca 
Maria.     Has    he   not   revealed   anything 
to  you? 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    I  3I 

BiANCA  Maria,  always  with  slight  excite- 
ment  in  her  voice. 
What  could  he  reveal  to  me  that  he  has 
not  already  revealed  to  you,  dear  Anna? 
You  are  so  near  to  his  soul,  so  near! 

Anna. 

I  am  near  to  his  soul  as  a  beggar  is 
near  a  door.  Perhaps  he  has  no  more 
to  give  to  me. 

BiANCA  Maria,  sweetly. 

Why  do  you  say  such  things?  I  see  his 
eyes  when  they  turn  toward  you.  His 
look  repeats  constantly  that  he  has  noth- 
ing dearer,  and  that  he  finds  nothing 
more  beautiful.  .  .  .  How  beautiful  you 
are,  Anna! 

Anna. 

You  seem  to  wish  to  console  me  for 
something  that  I  have  lost.  .  .  . 

Bianca  Maria. 
Why  do  you  say  such  things?  ; 


TIIK     DEAD     CITY 


Anna,  listening. 
Do  you  hear?    Alessandro  is  returning. 
Look,  nurse,  from  the  loggia,  and  see  if 
he  is  coming. 

The  Nurse,  who  has  remained 
seated  upon  the  steps,  inactive,  all 
this  time,  rises  and  ascends  to  the 
loggia  to  look  out. 

Nurse. 
There  is  no  one  on  the  road. 

Anna. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  heard  the  steps 
of  the  horse.     Perhaps  he  is  still  at  some 
distance.     It  is  late. 

BiANCA  Maria. 
From  the  window  of  my  room  I  can  see 
the  entire  road  to  Argos.     I  am  going  to 
see  if  he  is  on  the  way. 

Exit  through  the  second  door  to 
the  right. 


ACT     FIRST,    SCENE     II  33 


SCENE   II 

The  Nurse  approaches  Anna,  ivho  has  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands. 

Anna. 

I  feel  like  weeping,  nurse. 

The  Nurse  takes  her  hands  to 
kiss  them. 

Nurse. 
What  has  my  daughter  on  her  heart? 

Anna. 

I  do  not  know.  Something  that  presses 
like  a  knot;  and  then  ...  a  vague 
fear  .  .  . 

Nurse. 
Fear? 


34  the  dead   city 

Anna. 
Oh,    I  do  not  know.  .  .  .  Let  me  sit 
down.  .  .  .  Stay  near  me! 

She  sits  down.    The  Nurse 

kneels  at  her  feet.     She  suddenly 

beiids    her   head   toward    The 

Nurse. 

Look,  nurse,  if  you  can  find  any  white 

hairs.     I  must   have   some.     Look   well, 

nurse;  here  upon  my  temples;  hereupon 

the  back  of  my  head.     Have  you  found 

it?     Have  you?     Only  one?     Many?    Are 

there  many? 

Nurse  who  has  put  her  fingers  into  her  hair. 
Not  one. 

Anna. 

Not  one,  really?    Arc  you  telling  me 
the  truth? 

Nurse. 
Not  one. 


act    first,  scene  ii  35 

Anna. 
I  am  still  young?    Tell  me,  am  I  still 
young?    Tell  me  the  truth! 

Nurse. 
So  young,  indeed. 

Anna. 

Tell  me  the  truth! 

Nurse. 
Why  should  I  deceive  you?    You  are  as 
white  as  these  statues.     No  woman  is  as 
white  as  you  are. 

Anna. 
It  is  true.  So  Alessandro  told  me  the 
first  time  he  spoke  to  me,  long,  long  ago. 
Ah!  That  is  why  I  became  blind,  like 
the  statues!  .  .  .  What  did  Bianca  Maria 
say  about  my  eyes  just  now?  Look  at  my 
eyes,  nurse,  are  they  not  like  two 
opaque  stones? 


36  the  dead   city 

Nurse. 
They  are  as  clear  as  two  crystals. 

Anna. 

They  are  dead,  nurse;  they  are  without 
sight.  Do  they  not  cause  you  a  slight 
shudder,  when  they  are  fixed  upon  you? 
Do  they  not  frighten  you  a  little?  Tell 
me  the  truth! 

Nurse. 
Ah,   stop!     They  are  still   alive  —  still 
alive!     Some  day,  suddenly,  through  the 
grace  of  God,  they  will  recover  the  light 
they  have  lost. 

Anna. 
Never  more!     Never  more! 

Nurse. 
Some  day,   suddenly:    perhaps   to-mor- 
row. .  .  . 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE     II  37 

Anna, 

Never  more!     Never  more!  ; 

Nurse. 
Who  knows  the  will  of  the  Lord?    Why 
should   the   Lord   have  left  your  eyes  so 
beautiful  if  he  had  not  wished  to  illumine 
them  once  more? 

Anna. 

Never  more! 

Nurse. 
If  truly  hope  were  dead,  why  should 
my  heart  tremble  every  morning  when 
you  call  me?  Why  should  I  turn  toward 
you  with  the  same  expectation  every 
morning  when  I  open  the  window  of  your 
room,  to  let  in  the  light? 

Anna,  with  a  deep  sigh.  ' 

If  it  might  be! 


38  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Nurse. 
You  also,  do  you  not  dream  every  night 
that  sight  has  returned  to  your  eyes? 

Anna. 
Oh,  dreams! 

Nurse. 
Believe  in  dreams!     Believe  in  dreams! 

Anna. 
Here   comes    Bianca   Maria,     Go,    go, 
nurse. 

The  Nurse  kisses  her  haiids,  rises  ajid 
goes  out  of  the  second  door  at  the  left^  on  her 
lips  a  silent  prayer. 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE   III  39 


SCENE  III 

Re-enter  Bianca  Maria. 
Anna. 
Is  Alessandro  coming? 

Bianca  Maria. 
I  saw  no  one  on  the  road  from  Argos. 
In  the  distance  I  noticed  a  cloud  of  dust; 
but  it  was  a  herd  of  goats.  He  may  be 
coming  back  across  the  fields.  May  be,  he 
went  down  to  the  fountain  of  Perseus. 

She  ascetids  the  steps  and  looks 
from  the  loggia,  between  the  col- 
umns^ toward  the  su?t. 
The  work  is  at  white  heat  in  the  Agora. 
Yesterday  they  found  five  funeral  strata, 
sure  indications.     A  great  cloud  of  dust 
arises  from  the  enclosure.     It  is  a  reddish 
dust;  in  the  sun  it  seems  to  burn.     Ah! 
It  seems  as  if  it  must  penetrate  the  blood 


4©  THE     DEAD     CITY 

like  a  poison.  I  am  sure  Leonardo  is 
there  on  his  hands  and  feet,  lying  pros- 
trate, digging  with  his  own  hands.  He 
fears  that  the  blow  of  an  iron  might 
break  fragile  things. 

She  turns  toward  the  blind  woman. 
If  you  could  see  how  tenderly  he  takes 
every  fragment  out  of  its  coat  of  earth. 
Looking  at  him  one  would  think  that  he 
was  about  to  peel  a  precious  fruit,  and  that 
he  feared  to  lose  a  drop  of  its  juice.  .  .  . 
A  pause.    She  descends  toward 
the  blind  woman,   with  a  stvift 
gliding    JHotion^    keeping  in  the 
rays  of  the  sun. 
Would  you  like,  Anna,  to  eat  a  sweet- 
scented  orange?     Would  you  like  to  be  in 
a  Sicilian  garden? 

Anna,  making  a  gesture  in  the  air  as  if  to 
draw  the  young  girl  to  her. 

What  a  strange  voice  comes  from  your 
lips,  Bianca  Maria!     It  seems  like  a  new 


ACT    FIRST,   SCENE   III  4I 

voice,  as  of  one  who  was  asleep  and  who 
suddenly  awakens.  .  .  . 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Does  my  wish  astonish  you?  Would 
you  not  like  to  have  a  basket  of  fruit  in 
your  lap?  Ah,  with  what  greed  I  would 
eat!  At  Syracuse  we  used  to  walk 
through  the  orange  groves,  looking 
through  the  boughs  at  the  glittering  sea; 
the  trees  bore  upon  their  branches  the 
ripe  fruit  and  the  new  blossoms,  the 
petals  fell  upon  our  heads  like  a  fragrant 
snow;  and  we  bit  into  the  juicy  pulp  as 
one  bites  bread. 

Anna  stretches  out  her  hands  again  to  draw 
her  to  her  while  the  other  still  keeps  a 
little  away. 

It  is.  there  you  would  like  to  live. 
There,  there  is  joy!  All  your  being  asks 
for   joy,    needs    joy.     Ah,    how   brilliant 


43  THE    DEAD     CITY 

your  youth  should  be  to-day!  The  desire 
of  living  is  radiating  from  your  person 
like  the  heat  of  a  fire-place.  .  .  .  Let  me 
warm  my  poor  hands! 

BiANCA  Maria  approches  her  and  sits  at 
her  feet  upon  a  low  stool.  As  soon  as 
Anna  touches  her  cheeks ^  site  lias  a  visible 
shiver. 

Why  are  your  hands  so  cold,  Anna? 


Anna. 
Your  entire  face  throbs  like  a  violent 
pulse. 

Bianca  Maria. 
The  sun  has  set  me  on  fire.  In  there  at 
my  window  I  kept  watching  in  the  sun. 
The  stone  of  the  sill  was  almost  burning. 
Here,  too,  the  whole  room  is  now  flooded 
by  the  sun.  The  sunshine  reaches  as  far 
as  the  feet  of  Hermes.     We  are   sitting 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    III  43 

on  the  bank  of  a  golden  stream.      Stoop 
down  a  little. 

Anna,   touching  her  vaguely  upon  the  face 
and  hair. 

How  you  love  the  sun!  How  you  love 
life!  I  heard  Alessandro  tell  you  one 
day,  that  you  resembled  Victory,  unlacing 
her  sandals.  I  remember — at  Athens — in 
marble  as  fine  as  ivory,  a  delicate  and 
impetuous  figure,  which  gave  one  the 
desire  to  fly,  to  soar  through  the  air  for- 
ever. ...  I  remember:  her  small  head 
stood  out  from  the  curve  of  her  wings, 
which  hung  in  repose  from  her  shoulders. 
Alessandro  said  that  the  impatience  to 
fly  was  expressed  in  every  fold  of  the 
tunic,  and  that  no  other  statue  represented 
more  vividly  the  gift  of  divine  swiftness. 
.  .  .  We  lived  for  a  time  in  the  enchant- 
ment of  that  youthful  grace.  Every  day 
we  ascended  to  the  Acropolis  to  look  at 


44  THE     DEAD     CITY 

it  again.     Is    it  true    that  you   resemble 
her,  Bianca  Maria? 


BiANCA  Maria,  troubled  by  the  strange 
manner  of  the  blind  woman  who  continues 
to  touch  her. 

I  have  no  wings.    You  look  for  them  in 
vain! 


Anna. 

Who  knows!  The  wings  invisible,  are 
the  ones  that  fly  the  furthest.  Every  vir- 
gin can  be  a  messenger.  .  .  . 

A  pause.  She  continues  to 
finger  Bianca  Maria,  wtio 
makes  an  involuntary  movcmettt 
as  if  to  dratv  away. 

Will  you  not  allow  mc  to  touch  you?  I 
feel  that  you  are  beautiful,  and  I  would 
like  to  picture  to  myself  your  beauty. 
Arc  my  hands  repulsive  to  you? 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    III  4S 

BiANCA  Maria  takes  her  hands  and  kisses 
them. 
No!  No!  Anna.  But  I  cannot  tell  you 
the  sensation  they  give  me.  It  seems  as 
if  your  fingers  could  see.  ...  I  do  not 
know.  It  is  like  a  gaze  that  persists,  that 
presses.  .  .  .  Each  of  your  fingers  is  like 
an  eye  that  opens.  .  .  .  Ah,  your  whole 
soul  seems  to  descend  to  the  extremities 
of  your  fingers,  and  your  flesh  seems  to 
lose  its  human  qualities.  The  color  of 
these  veins  is  unspeakably.  .  .   . 

She  places  her  lips  upon  the 

hollozv    of    Anna's    left    ha?idy 

trembVmg. 

Do  you  not  feel  my  lips  upon  your  soul? 
Anna,  in  secret  despair. 

They  burn,  Bianca  Maria.  They  are  as 
heavy  as  if  all  the  wealth  of  life  was 
gathered  in  them.  How  tempting  must 
your  lips  be!  All  the  promises,  and  all 
the  persuasions  must  be  in  them. 


46  THE    DEAD    CITY 


BiANCA  Maria. 
You  disturb  me.  .  .  .  My  life  is 
bounded  by  a  narrow  circle,  perhaps  for- 
ever. I  was  reading  to  you  awhile  ago 
the  A^itigoTie.  From  time  to  time  I 
seemed  to  be  reading  my  own  destiny.  I, 
too,  have  consecrated  myself  to  my 
brother.  ...   I,  too,  am  bound  by  a  vow! 

Anna,  with  passionate  and  anxious  tenderness. 

The  forces  of  your  life  are  too  grand  to 
be  consumed  in  sacrifice.  You  must  live. 
.  .  .  You  must  rejoice,  bite  the  fruit, 
pluck  flowers,  dear  soul.  I  seem  to  feel 
in  you  a  glowing  fire.  All  your  blood 
beats  in  your  face  so  strangely.  .  .  .  O,  I 
have  never  felt  such  a  strong  pulsation. 
.    .    .    Your  heart.  .   .  .  Your  heart.   .  .  . 


She  searches  for  Bianca 
Maria's  heart,  bending  down  to 
listen  to  its  beating.     She  speaks 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    III  47 

in  a  low,  almost  mysterious  voice 

the  following  words. 
It  is  terrible,  your  heart,  ...  It  seems 
to  want  the  whole  world.  ...  It  is  wild 
with  eagerness.  .  .  . 

BiANCA  Maria 

Oh,  Anna! 

She  trembles  and  shrinks  away 
from  the  hands  of  the  blind 
woman  as  from  slow  torture  that 
enervates  and  exhausts. 

Anna. 
Do  not  tremble!  I  am  like  a  dead 
sister  of  yours  returned  from  the  grave. 
Once  my  blood,  too,  beat  so;  and  my 
desire,  too,  toward  the  immensity  of  life 
was  boundless.  I  know  what  you  dream, 
what  you  suffer,  and  what  you  expect. 
.  .  ^.  There  is,  there  is  happiness  on 
earth;  there  hangs  over  every  head  the 
hour  of  joy.     You  devotedly  follow  your 


48  THE     DEAD     CITY 

brother  who  lives  amid  ruins,  and  digs  in 
sepulchres;  but  you  cannot  renounce  your 
hour.  An  imperious  force  has  suddenly 
risen  within  you.  You  cannot  repress  it 
any  longer.  If  you  should  succeed  in 
cutting  off  its  stem,  a  thousand  sprouts 
would  rise  from  its  roots.  You  must  yield. 

BiANCA  Maria  hides  her  face 
in  the  lap  of  the  bli?id  woman  and 
remains  in  this  position,  tre?nbling. 

Do  not  tremble.  I  am  like  a  dead 
sister  of  yours,  who  watches  over  you 
from  beyond.  Maybe,  I  am  for  you  like  a 
shadow;  I  am  in  another  world.  You  see 
what  I  do  not  see.  I  see  what  you  do  not 
see.  Therefore,  you  feel  separated  from 
me  by  an  abyss.  You  cannot  yield  your 
soul  to  mine  as  you  yield  your  head  to  my 
lap.     Is  it  not  so? 

She  puts  her  hands  upon  the 
i  hair  of  the  recli?iing  girl,  caress- 

I  i^S  i^!  l^^^^  ^he  drops  them. 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    III  49 

How  much  hair!  How  much  hair!  It 
is  soft  to  the  touch,  like  running,  tepid 
water.  How  much!  How  much!  It  is 
marvelous!  If  it  should  come  down,  it 
would  cover  you  to  your  feet.  Ah,  it  is 
coming  down! 

The  loosened  hair  falls  upon  the 
slwulders  of  Bianca  Maria  and 
down  Anna's  dress ^  in  luxuriant 
waves.  The  liands  of  tlie  blind 
woman  follow  its  ripples. 

It  is  a  torrent.  It  covers  you  com- 
pletely. It  touches  the  ground.  It 
covers  me  also.  How  much!  How 
much!  It  has  a  perfume,  a  thousand  per- 
fumes. A  torrent  full  of  flowers.  .  .  . 
Ah,  you  are  all  beauty.  .  .  You  have  all 
the  gifts! 

She  puts  }ier  hands  upon  her 
temples,  atid  upon  her  cheeks,  con- 
vulsively^ with  a  gesture  of  an- 
guish^ as  if  feeling  lost.  Her 
voice  becomes  veiled. 


50  THE     DEAD    CITY 

How  could  one  who  loved  you  renounce 
you?  How  could  you  remain  in  the 
shade?  You  who  have  been  created  to 
give  joy!  Some  part  of  you  was  asleep 
in  the  depths,  which  now  has  awak- 
ened. Now  you  know  yourself,  do  you 
not?  I  have  watched  your  steps  at  times. 
You  move  as  if  in  tune  with  an  inner 
well-known  melody.  .  .  .  Ah,  if  I  myself 
could  pronounce  the  word  of  happiness 
for  you,  Bianca  Marial 

BiANCA  Maria  sobs,  buried 
under  her  Imir,  suffocating. 

You  are  weeping? 

She  draws  the  hair  against  her 
eyelids  to  feel  the  tears. 

You  are  weeping!  You  ire  weeping! 
Ah,  woe  to  us! 

A  pause.  Bianca  Maria  sobs^ 
always  in  the  same  position. 
Anna  turns  restlessly  toward  one 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    III  5 1 

of  the  doors.  A  great  anxiety 
shows  in  her  face  as  she  hears  a 
rapid  step  ofi  the  stairway. 

Here  is  Alessandro! 

BiANCA  Maria  rises  to  her 
feet,  her  face  hidden  i7i  her  hair 
which  covers  her  completely, 
trembling  atid  terrified  in  the  light 
of  tJu  sun. 


52  THE     DEAD     CITY 


SCENE     IV 

Alessandro  enters  through  the  first  door 
to  the  right,  carrying  a  bunch  of  wild  floivers 
ifi  his  hafid,  a  little  out  of  breath  and  heated. 
He  starts  back  at  seeing  Bianca  Maria  in 
such  a  cofidition,  and  his  confusio?i  is  apparent. 

Anna,  her  voice  calm  and  soft  again. 
Where  do  you  come  from,  Alessandro? 
We  have  been  waiting  for  you  a  long  time. 
Bianca  Maria,  from  her  window,  watched 
the  road  to  Argos  to  descry  your  horse; 
but  you  did  not  appear.  Where  do  you 
come  from? 

Alessandro,  in  a  clear^  ringing  voice, 
with  sober  and  simple  intonatio7i  which  re- 
veals the  strength  of  a  spontaneous  a7id  deep 
feeling  in  every thi?ig  he  says. 

I  have  been  riding  through  the  country 
at  random.  I  crossed  the  Inachos,  which 
has  not  a  drop  of  water  in  it,  .   .  .  All 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    IV  53 

the  fields  are  covered  with  little  wild 
flowers  that  are  dying;  and  the  song  of 
the  larks  fills  the  sky!  It  is  marvelous! 
I  never  heard  such  impetuous  singing. 
Thousands  of  larks,  a  countless  mul- 
titude. .  .  .  They  flew  up  from  every- 
where, darting  toward  the  sky  with  the 
speed  of  arrows;  they  seemed  mad,  van- 
ishing in  the  light  without  re-appear- 
ing, as  if  consumed  by  their  own  song  or 
devoured  by  the  sun.  .  .  .  One  fell  sud- 
denly at  the  feet  of  my  horse  like  a 
stone,  and  lay  there  lifeless,  struck  down 
by  intoxication  from  having  sung  with 
too  much  joy.  I  picked  it  up.  Here 
it  is! 

Anna,  stretching  out  her  hand  and  takmg  the 
lark. 
Ah,  it  is  still  warm.  How  soft  and 
delicate  its  throat  is.  It  was  singing  a 
little  while  ago!  Look  at  it,  Bianca 
Maria. 


54  THE    DEAD    CITY 

BiANCA  Maria  approaches  tim- 
idly, embarrassed  by  her  hanging 
hair. 
You  tremble.  .  .  .  She  feels  ashamed 
of  her  hair,  Alessandro.     She  was  sitting 
near  me  just  now,  when  it  became'unfast- 
ened  in  my  hands,  and  suddenly  inundated 
me.  ...  It  is  wonderful!     She  must  be 
entirely  covered  by  it.    You  see  her!   You 
see  her!     Are  you  standing  in  the  sun, 
Bianca   Maria?     Give   her   your    flowers, 
Alessandro!     Give  her  your  flowers! 

Bianca  Maria  trie^to  gather 
her  hair  and  coil  it  upon  her  head. 
Alessandro,  astmiished  and  perplexed,  but 
smiling,  advatices  toward  the  girl. 
Take  these  flowers,  Bianca  Maria. 

Bianca  Maria  Jiolds  out  her 
hands,  havi?ig  gathered  up  her 
hair  confusedly,  and  U7icovered 
her  face  upon  which  appear  the 
traces  of  tears. 
You  have  been  crying? 


act  first,  scene  iv  55 

Anna. 
She  was  reading  Antigoiie  to  me,  and 
suddenly  the  sadness  of  it  overwhelmed 
her.  .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
You  wept  for  Antigone! 

Anna. 
Upon  the  steps  of  the  loggia  she  was 
looking  at  the  clouds  of  dust  arising  from 
the     Agora;     and    the    thought    of    her 
brother  caused  her  anxiety.  .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
You  were  reading  the  story  of  the 
watcher.  .  .  .  Antigone  is  never  so  beau- 
tiful as  under  that  tempest  of  fiery  dust 
in  the  arid  plane,  crying  and  imprecating 
over  the  naked  corpse  of  ker  brother.  Is 
it  not  so?  Sitting  upon  a  hill  against  the 
wind,  so  as  to  escape  the  odor  of  the 
decomposing   body,    the    watchers   await 


56  THE    DEAD     CITY 

with  closed  eyes  the  passing  of  the  blind- 
ing tempest;  and  she,  undaunted  in  the 
midst  of  the  atrocious  furnace,  gathers 
the  dust  with  her  hands  and  throws  it 
over  the  corpse.  .  .  .  Ah,  I  always  see 
her  thus!  ....  She  is  not  so  beautiful 
and  grand  when  she  leads  Oedipus  by  the 
hand,  or  when  going  to  her  death.  Is 
she?  I  should  have  liked  to  be  here  when 
you  read,  Bianca  Maria.  I  have  never 
heard  you  read. 

Anna. 
Why  not  read  a  few  pages  more? 

Bianca  Maria. 
I  have  not  the  book. 

Anna. 
Did  you  leave  it  upon  the  window-sill? 

Bianca  Maria. 
I    left  it.  .  .      I  do  not  know  where, 
Anna. 


act  first,  scene  iv  57 

Alessandro. 
Will  you  read  to  me  some  day? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Whenever  you  wish. 

Alessandro. 
Some  day  I  should    like   to   hear  you 
read  Sophocles'  Electra  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Gate  of  Lions. 

Anna. 

Ah,  the  invocation  to  light! 

Alessandro. 
Some   day  I  should  like  to  hear  you 
read  one  of  my  poems. 

Anna. 
Which  one? 

Alessandro,  with  an  air  Qf  uncertainty. 
Which  one? 


58  THE     DEAD     CITY 

A    pause.    A    c 071  fused   noise 
comes  through  the  loggia.  Bianca 
Maria  rapidly  ascends  the  steps 
afid  looks  toward  the  Acropolis. 

Bianca  Maria,  growing  excited. 
They  are  the  men  in  the  Agora.  They 
are  shouting  with  joy.  .  .  .  Perhaps  they 
have  discovered  a  tomb;  perhaps  they 
have  found  the  king.  .  .  .  Leonardo! 
Leonardo! 

Alessandro,  ascetiding  to  Iter  si^i:. 
Do  you  see  Leonardo? 

Bianca  Maria. 
No,  I  do  not  see  him.  .  .  .   The  dust 
hides   everything;  the  wind   is   stronger. 
He  must  be  there,  on  his  knees  under  the 
dust.  .  .  .  Leonardo! 

Alessandro. 
Your  voice  cannot  reach  him.     He  can- 
not hear  you. 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    IV  59 

BiANCA  Maria. 
They  shout  no  longer.  .  .  .  Listen! 

Her  hair  is  fallings  dishevelled^ 
from  the  top  of  her  head  again. 

Alessandro. 
They  shout  no  longer.    We  hear  nothing 
more. 

A  pause.  The  two  remain  for 
a  while  near  each  other,  silent. 
The  wind  blozvs  Bianca  Maria's 
hair  toward  Alesssandro. 

Anna. 
It  is  strange,  this  silence. 

The  two  descend  the  steps,  pen- 
sive.    Suddenly  Bianca  Maria, 
feeli7ig  lier  hair  pdled,  utters  a 
•  slight  cry.      The    blind    wotnan 

springs  to  her  feet  trembling.    The 
dead  lark  falls  from  her  lap. 

Alessandro! 

Alessandro,  trying  to  laugh. 
It  is  nothing,  Anna.    A  little  of  Bianca 


6o  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Maria's  hair  caught  in  the  setting  of  my 
ring  and  pulled  out.  .  .  .  Did  you  feel 
any  pain? 

BiANCA  Maria. 

Oh,  hardly  any.  .  .  . 

LaytJig  the  flowers  upon  a  step, 
she  tries  to  arra7ige  her  hair. 

Alessandro. 
Forgive  me.     I  had  not  noticed.    .    .    . 

Anna,  witJi  simulated  simplicity. 
Bianca  Maria's  hair  is  so  soft!   Did  you 
notice,  Alessandro?     I  would  like  to  have 
it  always  in  my  fingers,  like  a  spinning 
woman. 

She  approaches  Bianca  Maria 
unsteadily  a?td  leans  upon  her 
shoulder  in  a  caressing  way. 

Alessandro,  still  trying  to  laugh. 
Oh,   I    have   never  dared  to  touch   it. 
The  wind  blew  it  toward  me.     The  rape 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    IV  6 1 

of  the  lock  was  an  involuntary  one;  a  few 

threads  of    silk  to    tie    scattered    pages 

together.  . 

He  tries  to  disentangle  the  hair 
from  his  ring 

But  they  are  inextricable.     What  knots 

chance  can  tie! 

BiANCA  Maria,  shivering. 
Listen! 

A  clamor  is  heard  again. 
They  are  still  shouting. 

Anna. 
Some  great  sight.  .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
Did  you  notice,  Bianca  Maria,  how 
uneasy  and  anxious  Leonardo  was  this 
morning?  He  seemed  to  be  coming  out 
of  a  nightmare.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  had 
been  visited  in  his  dreams  by  the  "King 
of  Men,"  and  had  wakened  with  some 
great  presentiment?     Did  not  the  ardor  in 


62  THE     DEAD     CITY 

his  eyes  pain  you?  I  could  not  look  at 
him  without  suffering.  I  thought  of  him 
constantly  a  long  time  in  the  fields.  I 
hoped  he  would  come  to  meet  me:  he 
would  have  heard  the  song  of  the  larks 
and  picked  some  flowers  with  those 
fingers  of  his,  which  have  known  nothing 
but  stone  and  dust  for  too  long  a  time. 
Ah,  it  is  a  long  time  since  he  began  to 
bend  over,  the  grey,  hard  clay!  .Fasci- 
nated by  the  tombs,  he  has  forgotten  the 
beauty  of  the  sky.  I  must  tear  him  away 
at  last  from  that  accursed  spot.  .  .  . 

BiANCA  Maria. 
You  alone  can  do  it.     You  know  what 
power  you  have  over  him. 

Anna,  in  a  low  voice. 
He  is  ill,  very  ill. 

BiANCA   Maria  looks  at   her 
with    a  shiver,  frightened  afid 
!  dropping  the  bunch  of  flowers. 


act  first,  scene  iv  63 

Alessandro. 
Truly,  at  times,  he  has  the  looks  of  a 
man  bewitched.  The  earth  he  digs  in  is 
malignant;  it  seems  that  exhalations  of 
monstrous  crimes  still  arise  from  it.  The 
curse  which  weighed  upon  the  Atridae 
was  so  horrible  that  it  seems  truly  as  if 
some  dreadful  vestige  of  it  still  remains 
in  the  dust  which  was  once  trod  by  them. 
I  understand  how  Leonardo,  who  lives  a 
most  intense  inner  life,  should  be  troubled 
by  it  almost  to  frenzy.  I  fear  that  the 
dead  he  is  looking  for,  and  does  not  dis- 
cover, have  been  revived  within  himself, 
and  breathe  within  him  with  the  tremen- 
dous force  infused  in  them  by  Aeschylus, 
enormous  and  bloody  as  they  appear  in 
the  "Orestiad,"  ever  pierced  by  the  sword 
and  firebrand  of  Destiny.  Ah,  how  many 
nights  have  I  seen  him  enter  my  room 
and  seat  himself  by  my  bed,  with  the 
book    that    made    him    sleepless!     How 


64  THE    DEAD     CITY 

many  nights  he  has  watched  with  me, 
reading  those  grand  verses  aloud,  which 
wearied  him  like  cries,  too  immense  for 
human  breath!  With  the  touch  of  that  ac- 
cursed soil,  everyday,  every  day,  he  must 
feel  his  fever  grow.  All  that  ideal  life  with 
which  he  has  nourished  himself  must 
have  assumed  in  him  the  shape  and  the 
body  of  reality.  I  think  that  at  every 
stroke  of  the  pickaxe  he  must  tremble 
through  all  his  bones,  anxious  to  see 
the  face  of  an  Atrides  really  appear,  still 
intact,  with  the  visible  signs  of  the  violence 
suffered,  of  the  cruel  slaughter,   .  .  . 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Listen!     Listen! 

A  new,  prolofiged  clamor  is 
heard.  Bianca  Maria,  agitated, 
i?npatient,  ascends  to  the  loggia, 
and  looks  totvard  the  Agora  in 
the  bright  su7ishi?ie. 

They  have  ascended  the  wall  .  .  .  two, 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    IV  65 

three,  four  men,  upon  the  wall  .   ,  .   they 
are    shouting,     shouting    for    joy.    .    . 
They   call     to   me,    waving    their    arms. 
.    .    .Look!  Look! 

Anna  has  grasped  Alessan- 
DRO's  wrist  tightly  f  and  rc7nai7is 
at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  wild  with 
afixiety.  Bianca  Maria  advan- 
ces and  lea?is  over  the  balustrade 
shouting.  At  intervals,  betdueen 
her  short  phrases,  she  seems  to 
take  ifi  the  signs  and  some  of  the 
words  of  her  brother,  who  is  rap- 
idly approaching. 

Leonardo!  I  see  Leonardo.  .  .  .  He  is 
there,  he  is  there.  ...  I  see  him.  .  .  . 
Now  he  is  in  the  Gate  of  Lions;  he  is 
coming  down  running  —  all  v/hite  with 
dust.  .  .  .  Some  great  event!  Some  great 
discovery!  .  .  .  Brother!  ,  .  .  Ah!  he  falls 
down  ...  he  struck  his  foot  against  a 
rock.  .  ,  .  My  God!  .  .  .  He  rises;  runs. 
.  .  .   Brother!  .  .  .  See   him!     See   him! 


66  THE    DEAD    CITY 

.  .  .  The  sepulchres.  .  .  .  He  has  dis- 
covered the  sepulchres  ...  all  his 
sepulchres.  .  .  .  God  be  praised!  .  .  . 
Ah,  what  joy,  what  joy!  .  .  ,.  Mybrother! 
.  .  .  Here  he  is!  .  .  .  Here  he  is!  He  is 
coming! 

Sh^  descends  to  the  room^  runs 
to  the  door  and  opens  it. 

hS.  last!  At  last!  .  .  .  Here  he  is! 
.  .  .  He  enters!  .  .  .  He  ascends  the 
stairs!  ...  At  last  all  is  joy,  all  is  joy! 
.  .  .  Brother!     Brother! 


ACT    FIRST,   SCENE    V  67 


SCENE   V 

Leonardo,  enters  by  the  first  door  at  the 
rights  white  with  dust  a?id  drippi?ig  with 
perspiration.  His  eyes  are  radiant  in  his 
almost  unrecognizable  face.  His  excite- 
ment  prevents  him  from  speaking;  a?id  his 
hands,  soiled  with  earth  arid  stained  ivith 
bloody  are  trembling  The  whole  room  is 
flooded  with  sunlight, 

Leonardo. 
The   gold,  the  gold  ,    .    .  the  corpses 
,  .  .  an    immense   amount   of  gold  .  .  . 
all  the  corpses  covered  with  gold.  .  .   . 

His  emotion  suffocates  him. 
BiANCA  Maria  and  Alessandro 
sta?id  near  him  breathless,  affected 
by  the  same  excitement.  Anna, 
standing  alone  and  leaning  upon 
the  edge  of  the  table,  bends  forward 
tozuard  the  voice  of  the  newcomer. 


68  THE    DEAD    CITY 

BiANCA  Maria,  with  pitying  tenderness. 

Be  calm,  be  calm,  Leonardo;  take  your 
breath  again.  Rest  a  minute!  .  .  ,  Arc 
you  thirsty?  Do  you  wish  something  to 
^rink? 

Leonardo. 
Yes,  give  me  a  drink!    I  am  dying  with 
thirst. 

Bianca  Maria  goes  to  the 
table,  fills  a  glass  with  water  and 
hands  it  to  him.  He  drinks  it 
ivith  avidity,  iii  one  draught. 

Bianca  Maria,  trembling. 
Poor  brother! 

Alessandro. 
Sit  down,  I  beg  of  you!     Rest  a  min- 
ute. .  . 

Leonardo,  ^£>«^//?w^Alessandro'  s  shoulder 

Ah,   why  were    you   not   there?    Why 

were  you  not  there?    You,  you  ought  to 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    V  69 

have  been  there,  Alessandro!  The  grand- 
est and  most  wonderful  vision  that  was 
ever  offered  to  mortal  eyes;  an  apparent 
hallucination;  unheard  of  wealth;  a  terri- 
ble splendor  revealed,  all  of  a  sudden  as 
in  a  superhuman  dream.  ...  I  cannot 
tell,  I  cannot  describe  what  I  have  seen, 
A  succession  of  tombs:  fifteen  corpses 
intact,  one  by  the  side  of  the  other,  upon 
a  bed  of  gold,  their  faces  covered  with 
golden  masks,  their  brows  crowned  with 
gold,  their  chests  enveloped  in  gold;  and 
everywhere,  upon  their  bodies,  at  their 
sides,  at  their  feet,  a  profusion  of  golden 
objects, — numberless  as  the  leaves  fallen 
in  a  fabulous  forest:  an  indescribable 
magnificence,  one  immense,  dazzling  view, 
the  most  resplendent  treasure  that  Death 
has  ever  gathered  in  the  darkness  of 
the  earth,  in  centuries,  in  thousands 
of  years.  ...  I  cannot  tell,  I  can- 
not  tell,  what   I    have  seen.     You,    you 


7©  THE    DEAD     CITY 

ought  to  have  been  there,  Alessandro. 
You  alone  would  have  been  able  to 
picture.  .  .  . 

He  stops  an  instant  as  if 
oppressed  by  wafit  of  breath.  All 
are  eagerly  watching  his  feverish 
lips. 

In  one  instant  this  soul  passed  over 
hundreds,  thousands  of  years,  breathed 
in  the  frightful  legend,  palpitated  with 
the  horror  of  the  ancient  slaughter.  The 
fifteen  corpses  were  there,  with  all  their 
members,  as  if  just  deposited  after  the 
killing,  hardly  burned  by  the  fire 
extinguished  too  soon:  Agamemnon, 
Eurymedon,  Cassandra,  and  the  royal 
escort:  buried  with  their  garments,  their 
weapons,  their  diadems,  their  vases,  their 
jewels,  all  their  riches.  ...  Do  you 
remember,  do  you  remember,  Alessan- 
dro, that  passage  of  Homer:  "They  lay 
between    the    vases    and    the   decorated 


ACT    FIRST,  SCENE    V  7 1 

tables,  and  all  the  room  was  stained  with 
blood.  And  I  heard  the  lamenting  voice 
of  the  daughter  of  Cassandra,  whom  the 
perfidious  Clytemnestra  stabbed  at  my 
side.  .  .  ."  For  an  instant  my  soul  has 
lived  an  antique  and  violent  life.  They 
were  there,  the  murdered  ones:  the  king 
of  kings,  the  enslaved  princess,  the 
charioteer  and  the  guests, — there,  under 
my  eyes  for  an  instant,  motionless.  As 
vapor  vanishes,  as  foam  melts  away,  as 
dust  is  dispersed,  like  I  do  not  know 
what  unspeakably  evanescent  and  fleeting 
thing,  they  all  passed  away  in  the  silence. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  they  were  swallowed 
by  the  same  fatal  silence  that  reigned 
over  their  radiant  immobility.  I  do  not 
know  what  happened.  A  mass  of  precious 
things  remains  there,  a  treasure  without 
equal,  the  witness  of  a  great  forgotten 
civilization.  .  .  .  You  will  see,  you  will 
see! 


72  THE     DEAD    CITY 

Anna,  very  softly. 
What  a  dream  I 

Alessando. 
What  a  glory!     What  a  glory! 

Leonardo. 
You  will  see!  The  golden  masks.  .  .  . 
Ah,  why  were  you  not  there,  at  my  side\ 
.  .  .  The  masks  protected  the  faces  from 
contact  with  the  air,  and  the  faces  must 
have  remained  natural.  One  of  the 
corpses,  surpassing  in  stature  and  majesty 
all  the  others,  was  adorned  with  a  large 
golden  crown,  with  the  armor,  the  belt 
and  the  golden  .  spurs.  Surrounded  by 
swords,  spears,  poniards,  and  cups,  cov- 
ered with  numberless  golden  discs  thrown 
profusely  upon  the  body  like  wreaths, 
more  venerable  than  a  demi-god.  I 
was  leaning'  over  him  when  he  vanished 


ACT    FIRST,   SCENE  V  73 

in  the  light;  I  was  raising  the  heavy  mask. 
.  .  .  Ah!  Have  I  not,  in  truth,  seen  the 
face  of  Agamemnon?  Was  he  not  the 
king  of  kings,  perchance?  His  mouth 
was  open,  his  eyes  were  open.  .  .  .  Do 
you  remember,  do  you  remember  in 
Homer:  "As  I  lay  dying  I  lifted  my 
hand  toward  my  sword;  but  the  woman 
with  the  dog's  eyes  went  away  and  would 
not  close  my  eyelids  nor  my  mouth  .  .  . 
at  the  moment  when  I  was  descending 
into  the  home  of  Hades."  Do  you 
remember?  The  mouth  of  the  corpse 
was  open  now,  the  eyelids  were  open. 
.  .  .  He  had  a  large  forehead,  orna- 
mented with  a  round  golden  band;  the 
nose  was  long  and  straight;  the  chin,  oval; 
and  when  I  raised  the  armor  I  thought  I 
noticed  the  hereditary  sign  of  the  tribe 
of  Pelops,  "the  shoulder  of  ivory."  .  .  . 
Everything  vanished  in  the  light.  A 
handful  of  dust  and  a  mass  of  gold.  .  .  . 


74  THE    DEAD     CITY 

Alessandro,  astonished  and  dazzled. 
You  speak  like  one  coming  out  of  a 
hallucination,  like  one  who  is  the  prey  of 
a  delirium.  What  you  say  is  incredible. 
...  If  you  have  really  seen  what  you 
say,  you  are  no  longer  a  human  being. 

Leonardo. 
I  saw  it,  I  saw  it!  .  .  .  and  Cassandra! 
How  we  loved  the  daughter  of  Priam, 
"the  flower  of  the  booty!"  Do  you 
remember?  How  you  loved  her,  with  the 
same  love  as  Apollo!  She  pleased  you, 
deaf  and  dumb  upon  her  chariot,  with 
her  "look  of  a  wild  animal  just  taken," 
owing  to  the  Delphic  fire  which  was 
smouldering  under  her  sibylline  tongue. 
Many  a  night  her  prophetic  cries  have 
awakened  me.  .  .  .  And  she  was  there 
just  now,  supine  upon  a  bed  of  golden 
leaves  with  numberless  golden  butter- 
flies upon  her  garment,  her  brow  bound 


ACT    FIRST,   SCENE    V  75 

with  a  diadem,  her  neck  ornamented 
with  necklaces,  her  fingers  covered  with 
rings;  and  a  golden  pair  of  scales  rested 
upon  her  breast,  the  symbolic  scales  with 
which  the  destinies  of  man  are  weighed, 
and  an  infinity  of  golden  crosses  formed 
of  four  laurel  leaves  surrounded  her;  and 
her  two  sons,  Teledamos  and  Pelops, 
wrapped  in  the  same  metal,  were  at  her 
sides  like  two  innocent  lambs.  .  .  .  Thus 
I  saw  them.  And  I  was  crying  to  you 
aloud  when  she  vanished.  But  you  were 
not  there!  You  will  see  her  wrappings, 
you  will  touch  her  empty  girdle.   .  . 

Alessandro,  impatient  and  excited. 
I  must  see,  I  must  run.   .  ,  . 

Leonardo  holds  him  back 
with  his  hand,  urged  by  an  irre- 
sistible need  of  saying  r?iore,  of 
communicating  to  others  all  his 
feverish  excitement. 


76  THE    DEAD     CITY 


Leonardo. 

Marvelous  vases,  four-handled,  orna- 
mented with  little  doves,  like  Nestor's  cup 
in  Homer;  large  heads  of  oxen,  all  of 
solid  silver,  with  golden  horns;  thousands 
of  plates  wrought  in  the  shape  of  flowers, 
leaves,  insects,  shells,  octopi,  Medusas, 
stars;  fantastic  animals  of  gold,  ivory, 
crystal;  sphinxes,  griffins,  chimeras;  small 
figures  of  divinities  with  arms  and  heads 
loaded  with  doves;  little  temples  with 
towers  crowned  with  doves,  their  wings 
spread;  lion-hunts  and  panther-hunts 
engraved  upon  blades  of  swords  and 
lances;  ivory  combs,  bracelets,  lockets, 
seals,  sceptres,  wands.  .  .  . 

While  he  pictures  these  splen- 
dors Anna  lets  herself  fall  tipon  a 
chair  and  coiners  her  face  with 
her  palms,  leaiiiug  forward  ^  and 
her  elbows  upon  her  knees. 


ACT    FIRST,   SCENE    V  77 

Alessandro,  breaking  away. 
Let  me  go!     Let  me  go! 

Leonardo,  risings  very  loud. 
I  go  with  you.  .  .  .  Let  us  go! 

BiANCA  Maria,  embracing  her  brother  a7id 
beseeching  him^  her  hair  again  falling 
about  her. 

No,  no,  Leonardo,  I  beg  of  you. 
Remain  here  awhile,  rest  a  little,  recover 
at  least  your  breath!  You  are  too  tired, 
you  are  exhausted! 

Alessandro. 
I  am  going,  I  am  going! 

Exit  by  the  door  leading  to  the  stairs. 

Bianca  Maria,  still  holdifig  her  brother  in  her 
arms,  compassionately. 
Oh,  how  weak  you  are,  my  poor 
brother,  my  poor  brother!  You  are  wet 
through.  .  .  .  The  perspiration  is  mixed 
with  dust.  .  .  .  Your  face  is  almost  black 
.    .    .    and   those   poor  eyes,   those  poor 


78  THE    DEAD     CITY 

eyes!  How  inflamed  they  are!  Your 
eyelids  are  as  red  and  swollen  as  if  you 
had  been  weeping  a  whole  year.  .  .  .  Do 
they  not  ache?  Oh,  how  they  must  ache, 
poor  eyes!  I  will  give  you  a  lotion 
I  know,  to  lave  them.  You  will  take  a 
rest,  won't  you?  You  will  rest  now  that 
your  wish  is  fulfilled.  .  .  .  You  have  cov- 
ered yourself  with  glory;  you  were 
splendid  awhile  ago  when  you  entered, 
you  were  resplendent  from  all  that 
gold.  .  .  . 

Herfallifig  hair  almost  covers 
him  as  she  sinks  against  his 
breast.  With  ififinite  tenderness 
she  wipes  his  brow,  and  his  eyes, 
his  cheeks y  his  neck  with  her  hair ; 
she  enfolds  him  with  her  love. 
Leotiardo  appears  as  if  re- 
pelled, rigid;  tvith  an  extraor- 
dinary expressioji  of  paiii  a?id  of 
terror  upon  his  exhausted  face  of  a 
deadlike  pallor. 


ACT    FIRST,   SCENE    V  79 

Let  me  wipe  the  perspiration  away,  let 
me.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  sorrow  you 
cause  me.  ...  I  do  not  know  what  to 
say  to  you  to  relieve  your  weariness,  to 
calm  your  blood,  to  revive  your  color;  I 
do  not  know  what  balm,  what  draught. 
.  .  .  Ah,  how  many  days,  how  many  days 
you  have  spent  there,  prostrate  upon  the 
earth,  in  the  excavations,  swallowing  that 
cursed  dust,  tearing  your  hands  on  the 
stones,  without  rest,  without  rest!  Poor 
hands!  They  are  all  torn,  stained  with 
blood,  the  fingernails  split,  almost  with- 
out flesh,  dry  as  flint.  .  .  .  Do  they  not 
ache?  Poor  hands!  I  will  give  you  an 
ointment  that  I  perfumed  sweetly  with 
violets — which  will  heal  them  in  a  short 
time,  and  make  them  as  soft  and  white  as 
they  were  once.  ...  I  remember.  You 
used  to  have  such  fine  and  beautiful 
hands.  .  .  .  How  you  tremble!  How  you 
tremble! 


8o  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Anna  suddenly  lifts  her  head. 
You  must  feel  like  dying  with  weari- 
ness. You  have  lived  at  such  a  tension, 
like  a  bow  ready  to  break!  Not  a  vein  in 
you  but  trembles,  and  your  muscles  twitch 
like  cords  unstrung.  .  .  .  You  are  suffer- 
ing, you  are  suffering! 

Struck  by  the  re?nembrnnce  of 
the   words  spoken  by  Anna,  she 
stops  with  an  expression  of  an- 
guish.     Then  she  takes   in    her 
hands  her  brother' s  head,  looking 
sharply  into  his  eyes. 
You    have    nothing    against    me,    have 
you?     I  have  done  nothing  to  you,  have 
I?     I    have   done   nothing   to   cause   you 
pain.     Tell     me,     tell     me      Leonardo! 
Ansv/erl 

Leonardo,  i7i  a  faint  voice,  trying  to  smile. 
Oh,  nothing! 

Bianca  Maria. 
I  never  loved  you  as  much  as  I  do  now, 


ACT    FIRST,   SCENE    V 


brother.  My  tenderness  for  you  has 
never  been  so  deep.  You  are  my  con- 
tinual thought,  you  are  everything  to  me. 
Take  me  where  you  will,  to  the  most 
sterile  desert,  to  the  most  desolate  ruin; 
and  if  you  smile  and  are  contented,  I 
shall  be  happy.  I,  too,  will  remain  in 
the  midst  of  the  dust;  I,  too,  will  tear  my 
hands  upon  the  stones;  I,  too,  will  gather 
the  bones  of  the  dead;  but  you  must  smile, 
you  must  have  a  cheerful  countenance. 
.  .  .  Do  you  remember,  do  you  remem- 
ber? At  Syracuse  you  used  to  sing  in  the 
midst  of  your  work,  and  you  seemed  to 
have  in  your  soul  the  beauty  of  the  statue 
for  which  you  were  looking.  I  was  pick- 
ing the  sweetest  oranges  to  bring  you; 
and  you  did  not  wish  to  eat  them  unless 
peeled  by  my  fingers.  Do  you  recollect? 
When  you  were  tired  you  fell  asleep  with 
your  head  upon  my  knees,  in  the  shadow 
of  the   olive    trees;  and    I  guarded  your 


82  THE     DEAD    CITY 

calm  sleep,  thinking  of  the  statue  you 
were  trying  to  find.  Ah,  how  long,  how 
long  have  I  not  watched  over  your  sleep! 
You  must  need  an  infinity  of  sleep.  .  .  . 
You  can  no  longer  raise  your  eyelids. 
,  .  .  Come,  come  to  your  room!  Let  me 
help  you.  Let  me  be  like  a  mother  to 
you!  You  must  sleep.  You  must  have  a 
long,  deep  sleep;  you  must  have  your 
soul  clarified  like  tranquil  water.  .  .  . 
When  you  wake  again  you  will  see  all  the 
gold  you  have  discovered,  as  at  the 
bottom  of  your  soul,  and  I  will  still  be  at 
your  bedside.     Come,  come! 

He  endeavors  to  draw  away 
from  the  sweet  embrace  as  if  from 
unbearable  torture. 

I  cannot  bear  to  feel  you  tremble  so! 
Come! 

Leonardo. 
I  must  go  back  there. 


ACT    FIRST,   SCENE    V  83 

BiANCA  Maria. 
It  is  impossible.     It  is  noon.     Do  you 
not  see!    The  sun  is  shining  everywhere, 
a  sun  that  burns.  .  .  .  Have  you  not  left 
your  men  up  there? 

Leonardo. 
I  must  return,  I  must  return! 

BiANCA  Maria. 
It  is  impossible.  You  cannot  go  back 
there  as  you  are.  .  .  .  You  would  fall  on 
the  way  .  .  .  Listen  to  your  sister!  You 
look  as  if  you  were  going  to  faint.  .  .  . 
Let  me  support  you! 

She  presses  him  back  and 
twines  her  arms  about  his  shoul- 
ders, covering  him  tenderly  with 
her  liair.  He  looks  deadly  pale 
and  desperate.  Anna  rises  silent- 
ly and  moves  toward  them,  listen- 
ing, while  they  go  out  through  the 
second  door  to  the  right.  The 
room  is  flooded  with  sunlight. 


84  THE    DEAD    CITY 


SCENE    VI 

Anna,  alone ^  takes  a  few  uncertain  stepSy 
oppressed  by  a  deep  gloom. 

Anna,  in  a  Iwllow  voice,  as  if  from  within. 
No  one  has  spoken  to  me.  I  am  in 
another  life.  .  .  .  And  all  that  funereal 
gold.  .  .  .  And  that  poor,  trembling  soul. 
.  .  .  And  all  that  sweet  life  that  is  glow- 
■"ng  in  the  beautiful  creature.  .  .  . 

Her  feet  touch  the  bunch  of  wild 
flowers,  which  have  fallen  from 
BiANCA  Maria's  hands. 

Ah,  the  wild  flowers  he  picked  for  her! 

She  stoops,  takes  the  whole  bunch, 
buries  her  face  in  it  and  remains 
mute  for  a  moment. 
I  would  I  could  weep! 

She  takes  a  few  steps  more. 
Nurse!    Nurse! 


ACT    FIRST,    SCENE    VI  85 

The  Nurse,  rushing  from  the  second  door  to 
the  left. 

Here!     Here  I  am. 

Takes  one  hand  of  the  blind 
woman  and  kisses  it. 

Anna. 
The  hour? 

Nurse. 
It  is  noon. 

Anna. 
Here,  take  these  flowers  and  put  them 
in  a  vase  of  water. 

Nurse. 
They  are  all  withered;  they  cannot  re- 
vive. 

Anna,  letting  the  bunch  fall. 

Let  us  go.  .  .  . 

While  going  out,  guided  by  the 
nurse,  she  stops  and  turns  aroujid 
as  if  remembering  something. 


86  THE    DEAD    CITY 

Ah,  look  around  there,  nurse,   look  on 
the  floor.  .  .  . 

Nurse,  bends  down  to  look. 
What  have  you  lost? 

Anna. 

Look  there.  ...  It  is  a  dead  lark! 


ACT    SECOND 


ACT  SECOND 

A  room  in  the  apartment  of  Leonardo.  Along 
the  walls,  which  are  paifited  a  dark  red,  stand 
large  cases  with  several  shelves,  containi7ig 
the  treasures  found  i?i  the  sepulchres  of  the 
Agora;  the  jars,  breastplates,  Tnasks,  diadems, 
swords  and  girdles  of  gold,  glitter  dimly  in 
the  half-light.  Upon  tzuo  inclined  tables 
shaped  like  biers,  rich  ornaments,  which 
had  covered  the  forms  of  Agamemnon  and 
Cassandro,  are  arranged  so  as  to  produce  the 
effect  of  the  absefit  bodies.  Some  caskets 
filled  zvith  gold,  and  a  few  vases  of  brass 
containing  ashes,  are  at  the  foot  of  the  tables, 
A  closed  door  is  on  the  right  side.  In  the 
backgrouTtd  an  open  balcony  looking  toward 
the  plain  of  Argos  and  the  distant  mountains. 
The  h7ur  of  smiset  approaches. 


89 


SCENE  I 

BiANCA  Maria  is  discovered  arrangiftg  the 
marvelous  objects.  She  stoops  to  take  the 
necklaces,  bracelets,  combs,  buckles  and  little 
idols  from  the  caskets  and  arrays  them  upon 
one  of  the  tables  about  the  goldefi  mask  of  the 
prophetess.  Some  spirals  of  golden  thread 
hang  between  her  fingers,  small  spirals  which 
were  used  to  fasten  the  hair  around  the  head. 
She  fastens  thefn  coquettishly  in  her  own  hair. 
Alessandro's  voice  is  heard  outside  the  door. 


90 


ACT    SECOND,  SCENE    I  9I 


Alessandro. 
Leonardo,  are  you  there? 

BiANCA  Maria,  tremblings  hesitating. 
My  brother  has  just  gone  out  ...  I  do 
not  know  where.  .  .  . 

She  goes  to  the  door  and  opens 
it.  Alessandro  appears  on  the 
threshold. 

Alessandro,  almost  timidly. 
Ah,    you   are  alone  .   .   .   alone   in   the 
midst   of    gold  ...   I    was     looking   for 
Leonardo. 

Bianca  Maria. 
I  do  not  know  where  he  has  gone  .   .   . 
Perhaps  he  descended  to  the  fountain  of 
Perseus.  .  .   . 

They  avoid  looking  at  each 
other. 


93  THE    DEAD    CITY 

Alessandro,  making  one  step  into  the  room. 

Have  you  remained  to  watch  the  treas- 
ure, Bianca  Maria  .  .  .  What  were  you 
doing? 

Bianca  Maria. 
I  was  replacing  Cassandra's  jewels 
around  her.  See,  that  casket  is  full  of 
them.  I  promised  my  brother  that  every- 
thing should  be  in  order  on  his  return  at 
nightfall.   .   .  . 

Alessandro. 

Do  you  wish  me  to  help  you?  It  is 
already  late. 

Bianca  Maria. 
It  is  late  .  .  . 

Alessandro,  advancing  totvard  the  relics. 

Strange!  There  seems  to  issue  from 
this  gold  an  indistinct  figure  .  .  .  The 
twilight,  or  a  night  lamp,  could  deceive 


ACT    SECOND,    SCENE    I  93 

the  eye  and  re-create  the  entire  form. 
Certainly,  Leonardo  is  aware  of  this  illu- 
sion. He  must  have  seen  more  than  once 
the  vision  of  Priam's  daughter 

BiANCA  Maria,  sighing. 

Ah,  his  eyes  seem  to  see  nothing  else 
but  phantoms! 

Alessandro,  softly. 

I  am  not  less  sad  for  his  sake  than  you 
are,  Bianca  Maria.  I  was  looking  for 
him,  hoping  ...  Of  late,  when  he  is 
with  me,  he  seems  to  be  continually 
driven  by  an  anxiety  to  reveal  a  secret  to 
me.  I  allow  silence  to  fall  upon  us,  and 
wait,  not  any  less  anxious  than  he.  His 
lips  swell,  they  seem  ready  to  open. 
But  he  abandons  the  idea,  and  they  re- 
main closed.  I  dare  not  question  him, 
fearing  to  drag  from  him  a  word  that  his 


94  THE    DEAD    CITY 

soul   would   not  yet   tell    mc.      And   we 
suffer  together,  silently. 

A  pause. 

What    are    you    thinking    of,    Bianca 
Maria? 

Bianca  Maria,  shaking  off  her  thoughts. 

Will  you  not  help  me?     My  brother  will 
return  soon. 

She  stoops  over  the  casket  a7id 
at  that  moment  Alessandro 
looks  at  her. 

Alessandro. 
What  have  you  in  your  hair? 

He  approaches  her. 

Bianca  Maria,  hi  confusion. 
Ah,  the  spirals.   ...   I  put  them  on  as 
an    experiment.      I   wish   to   show   them 
thus  to   Leonardo,   who  entertains  some 
doubt  about  their  former  use. 

She  starts  to  take  them  off. 


ACT    SECOND,    SCENE    I  95 

Alessandro,  with  an  unsteady  gesture  try- 
ing to  prevent  her,  witJwut^  however,  touch- 
ing her. 

No,    no.      Why  do  you    wish   to   take 
them  off?     Leave  them  where  they  are! 

BiANCA  Maria,  attempting  to  smile. 

I  must  restore  them  to  the  dead  prin- 
cess, whom  you  loved  so  much.  .   .   . 

Alessandro, 

No,   no!      Keep   them  yet  a  while   in 
your  hair! 

In  trying  to  prevent  her  from 
taking  them  off,  he  touches  her 
hand  lightly.  Both  are  troubled. 
They  look  at  each  other  zvith  a 
sort  of  restrained  violeiwe.  A 
pause. 

BiANCA  Maria,  lowering  her  eyelids,  softly. 

You  do  not  help  me.  .  .   . 

A  new  pause.  Both  stoop  over 
the  caskets  of  gold. 


96  THE     DEAD     CITV 

Alessandro. 
Look  at  the  carving  of  this  ring:  a 
woman,  sitting,  holding  three  poppies, 
with  three  ambiguous  figures  standing 
before  her,  and  upon  her  head  a  double- 
edged  axe,  and  the  brilliant  disc  of  the 
sun.  Look  at  this  other:  a  young  woman, 
holding  out  her  arms,  turning  her  head 
backward;  before  her  a  man,  also  holding 
out  his  arms.  Look:  the  woman  has 
luxurious  hair. 

BiANCA  Maria. 

She  turns  her  head  backward.  .  .  . 

A  pause.  Bianca  Maria  con- 
tinues to  arrange  the  ornaments 
around  the  mask.  Alessandro 
goes  out  on  the  balcony  aftd  re- 
mains lookitig  at  the  landscape  for 
a  few  instants.  Both  are  strtig- 
glvig  against  the  anguish  that 
seizes  them. 


act  second,  scene  i  97 

Alessandro. 
This  arid  country  has,  in  truth,  the 
feverish  aspect  of  thirst  personified. 
Other  lands  soften  and  breathe  when 
night  approaches.  This  one  tells  of  the 
torture  of  its  thirst  even  at  night.  Up 
to  the  last  gleam  of  twilight  you  see  the 
beds  of  its  dried-up  rivers  whitening  dole- 
fully. The  mountains  over  there,  do  they 
not  look  like  a  herd  of  enormous  asses, 
with  their  rigid  backs  rising  one  above  the 
other?  One  feels  that  down  behind  Pon- 
tino  the  swamp  of  Lerna  is  steaming. 
Look  how  inflamed  Arachnaeus  is.  Almost 
every  evening  its  summit  is  red,  in 
memory  of  that  fire  which  announced  to 
the  scouts  of  Clytemnestra  the  fall  of 
Troy.  From  the  mount  of  Ida  to  Arach- 
naeus, what  a  long  line  of  signal  fires! 
We  were  reading  again  yesterday  of  the 
marvelous  number  of  mountain  pyres 
kindled  by  Victory  .  .  .     And  now  you 


98  THE     DEAD     CITY 

may  sift  through  your  fingers  the  ashes  of 
him  who  announced  his  return  by  such 
signs!  You  wear  in  your  hair  the  orna- 
ments of  the  royal  slave  whom  he  chose 
from  the  spoils  of  war! 

He  moves  again  toward  Bianca 
Maria,  looking  at  her. 

And  all  that  is  simple,  as  you  do  it. 
The  abyss  of  time  is  filled,  between  you, the 
living,  and  the  belongings  of  the  king  and 
the  prophetess,  that  are  in  your  keeping. 
All  this  gold  seems  to  belong  to  you  from 
time  immemorial,  for  you  are  Beauty 
and  Poetry;  and  everything  returns  in  the 
cir>;uit  of  your  breathing,  everything  falls 
naturally  under  your  dominion.  .  .  . 

Bianca  y[\R\h,  fiale  a?td  trembling,  resting 
her  back  against  the  table  of  the  golden 
relics. 

Do  not  speak  to  me  thus! 


act  second,  scene  i  99 

Alessandro. 
•  Why  do  5''Ou  not  wish  me  to  speak  to 
you  of  the  truth  which  you  have  revealed 
to  my  spirit?  Do  you  not  think,  Bianca 
Maria,  that  to  manifest  internal  truth, 
when  it  demands  expression,  is  necessary 
for  those  who  have  resolved  to  live  with- 
out suffering  and  without  lying?  How 
many  times  have  we  smothered  in  silence 
the  unexpected  things  which  were 
born  in  us,  and  rose  to  our  lips!  I  can- 
not think  of  it  without  regret  and  re- 
morse. I  seem  to  see  them  undulating- 
below  the  still  water,  sluggish  and  shape- 
less. And  they  might  have  grown  in  us, 
who  knows  into  what  new  joys,  new 
pangs,  new  beauties,  meeting  each  other 
in  the  currents  of  our  living  voices.  Ah, 
woe  to  the  one  who  hides,  who  diss.'.Tu- 
lates,  who  smothers,  who  lies  before  life! 
Why  have  we  remained  up  to  this  time 
without   looking  into  each  other's  eyes? 


lOO  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Were  we  afraid  to  read  shame  in  our 
glances?  Were  we  afraid  to  acknowledge 
by  looks  what  we  already  knew? 

BiANCA  Maria,  ivith  anguish. 
We  know  what  cannot  be  and  can  never 
be. 

Alessandro. 
Ah,  another  prohibition  to  life! 

BiANCA  Maria. 
We  know  that  there  are  things  stronger 
than  death — to  separate  mortals.     Death 
could  not  separate  us  as  these  do. 

Alessandro. 
What  are  they? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
You  know.     Sacred  things. 

Alessandro. 
Ah,   I   would  wither  a  thousand  lives 
that  your  lips  might  drink,  Bianca  Maria! 


ACT    SECOND,  SCENE    I 


BiANCA  Maria, 
Do  not  speak  to  me  thus!  .  .  .  There 
is,  near  you,  bound  up  with  yours,  a  life 
far  more  precious  than  mine:  a  life 
almost  divine.  She  is  so  penetrating  that 
I  have  never  been  able  to  approach  her 
without  trembling  in  every  vein.  Noth- 
ing seems  unknown  to  her,  and  nothing 
strange.  Every  time  I  have  been  able  to 
force  myself  toward  her,  I  have  felt  in 
her  I  know  not  what  mysterious  beauty 
that  exalted  and  humiliated  me  at  the 
same  time.  And  I  have  never  wept  as  I 
have  upon  those  knees,  with  a  weeping 
that  gave  me  so  much  relief  and  so  much 
pain. 

Alessandro. 
You  do  not  know  what  terrible  and  un- 
expected   sterility   Time    brings   to    the 
highest  human  union.     The  most  power- 
ful roots  remain  buried  and  latent  below 


I02  THE     DEAD     CITV 

the  ground;  their  subterranean  force  be- 
comes inert  forever,  produces  neither  leaf 
nor  flower.  But  do  you  not  feel,  when 
your  life  is  near  mine,  a  mysterious 
vibration  that  resembles  the  ferment  of 
spring?  Your  presence  alone  is  sufficient 
to  give  to  my  mind  boundless  fer- 
tility. When  we  were  upon  the  loggia  the 
other  day,  in  the  silence  that  followed 
the  outcry,  and  the  wind  blew  your  hair 
toward  me,  my  soul  in  a  moment  ex- 
panded beyond  all  bounds,  encompassing 
an  infinite  number  of  new  ideas;  and 
the  dust  of  the  sepulchres  was  for  me  a 
flood  of  germs  eager  to  sprout.  We  sit, 
one  by  the  side  of  the  other,  in  a  desert 
far  from  the  tracks  of  man,  motionless 
and  mute  as  the  country  at  dawn,  yet 
every  breath  of  wind  would  waft  to  us 
marvelous  germs. 

BiANCA  Maria. 
In  you,  in  you  alone  is  all  the  power  .  .  . 


act  second,   scene  i  103 

Alessandro. 
In  you,  in  you  are  all  those  things 
which  men  mourn  without  ever  having 
possessed  them.  When  I  look  at  you, 
when  I  hear  the  rhythm  of  your  breath,  I 
feel  that  there  are  other  beauties  to  be 
revealed,  other  possessions  to  be  con- 
quered and  that  there  may  be,  in  this 
world,  things  one  can  do,  as  delicious  as 
the  sweetest  dreams  of  poetry.  I  do  not 
know  how  to  tell  you  what  I  experienced 
one  day,  standing  beside  you,  at  the  first 
appearance  of  my  love  and  my  desires. 
It  was  an  extraordinary  feeling  which  I 
can  describe  only  by  analogy  with  a  re- 
awakening of  my  distant  adolescence  .  . 
I  remember  that  re-awakening  as  a  joy- 
ful birth,  a  glorious  dawn  in  which  I 
was  born  to  another  life,  infinitely  purer 
and  stronger,  and  suddenly  the  hands  of 
Destiny,  firmly  clasped  around  my  head, 
were  removed.     I  was  sailing  from  Apulia 


I04  THE     DEAD     CITY 

toward  the  waters  of  Greece  for  the  first 
time.  It  was  in  the  Gulf  of  Corinth,  in  the 
Bay  of  Salona,  at  the  anchorage  of  Itea 
where  I  was  to  land  and  ascend  to  Delphi, 
You  know  those  places,  you  who  have 
wandered  over  all  the  shores  consecrated 
to  Mystery  and  Beauty.  .  .  . 

BiANCA  Maria,  as  in  a  dream. 
Salona!  I  remember:  an  azure  bay, 
with  little  hidden  harbors  like  the  cavities 
of  shells,  and  pink  like  shells,  in  the 
evening.  .  .  .  Upon  the  caverned  moun- 
tains, among  the  rocks,  on  some  patch  of 
reddish  soil,  waved  a  few  meagre  ears  of 
wheat,  mixed  in  with  tufts  of  aromatic 
herbs.  ...  I  remember:  one  evening  the 
stubble  fields  upon  one  mountain  caught 
fire.  The  light  and  serpentine  flames  ran 
among  the  rocks  with  the  rapidity  of 
lightning.  I  never  saw  such  a  quick  and 
bright  fire.     The  breeze  carried  to  us  the 


ACT    SECOND,   SCENE    I  1 05 

aroma  of  the  burning  herbs.  All  the  sea 
seemed  perfumed  with  wild  mint.  Thou- 
sands of  frightened  falcons  circled  above 
that  fire,  filling  the  whole  sky  with  their 
cries. 

Alessandro. 
There  it  was,  there  it  was!  I  had 
fallen  asleep  upon  the  deck,  my  face 
turned  toward  the  stars,  that  August 
night.  The  rattling  of  the  chains  awoke 
me  at  sunrise,  when  the  ship  had  been 
made  fast.  You  know,  you  know  to  what 
distance,  even  in  our  day,  Parnassus  ex- 
tends the  sanctity  of  its  ancient  myth. 
Your  eyes,  before  which  have  passed  the 
most  beautiful  and  the  most  august  visions 
of  the  earth,  have  certainly  drunk  in  that 
ideal  light  which  encircles  the  ApoUinean 
mountain  on  summer  mornings.  Still 
recumbent  I  saw  nothing  but  the  fabled 
summits  in  the  mute  pallor  of  the  sky; 


Io6  THE    DEAD    CITY 

but  from  the  shore  came  the  chant  of  the 
cocks:  a  lively  and  proud  chant  in  un- 
ceasing calls  and  unceasing  answers,  that 
alone  invaded  the  silence  of  the  sublime 
solitude.  Ah,  never,  never  shall  I  forget 
the  joyful  promises  that  were  made  to  my 
new  life,  in  that  place  and  in  that  dawn, 
by  this  inspiring  chant!  ... 

BiANCA  Maria. 
It  is  true!  It  is  true!    I  remember.  .  .  • 

Alessandro. 
Well  then,  the  extraordinary  emotions 
of  that  far  distant  morning  took  posses- 
sion of  my  spirit  again  in  that  generous 
hour  in  which  I  discovered  the  power 
that  lies  in  you.  Your  lips  were  motion- 
less, but  from  your  very  blood  I  could  hear 
a  song  arise  that  renewed  those  old  prom- 
ises. Ah,  I  knew  it!  I  knew  it!  I  knew 
well  that  all  the  promises,  sooner  or  later. 


ACT   SECOND,    SCENE    I  107 

would  be  fulfilled.  For  this  I  have  waited 
confidently.  I  have  waited  for  my  spirit 
to  obtain  to  perfect  maturity  that  it  might 
be  capable  of  the  supreme  sweetness.  I 
have  enlarged  its  knowledge  by  every 
means  that  it  might  be  better  able  to  appre- 
ciate the  greater  value  of  every  new  gift. 
I  have  led  it  to  every  fountain,  I  have 
poured  on  it  every  fragrance,  I  have  filled 
it  with  every  essence,  in  order  that,  in  its 
very  fullness,  it  might  feel  more  keenly  its 
insatiable  nature.  And  I  waited,  I 
waited!  And  you  came  like  a  messenger, 
you  appeared  on  my  path  at  the  moment 
when  I  was  turning  back  perplexed, 
assailed  by  uneasiness  on  account  of 
the  over-long  delay.  At  other  times  I 
had  looked  at  you,  had  listened  to  the 
sound  of  your  voice;  but  in  that  moment 
you  appeared  like  a  new  creature  slipping 
suddenly  out  of  a  chrysalis  that  had  hid- 
den you.  .   .  .   Before,    I  had    looked  at 


Io8  THE     DEAD     CITY 

you  without  seeing,  I  had  listened  to  you 
without  hearing.  Now  I  recognize  you, 
and  you  recall  to  me  all  the  promises  of 
that  distant  morning.  I  will  not  renounce 
one  of  them,  even  if  I  have  to  use  vio- 
lence to  compel  Destiny  to  fulfill 
them.  .  .  , 

BiANCA  Maria,  writhing  in  agony. 
Be  silent,  be  silent!    You  speak  as  if 
intoxicated.  ... 

Alessandro,    without   further   restraining 
his  ardor. 

I  need  you,  I  need  you!  If  ever  the 
shapes  I  have  given  to  my  thoughts  have 
appeared  beautiful  to  you,  if  ever  the 
words  of  my  poetry  have  seemed  comfort- 
ing to  you,  if  ever  you  have  recognized 
any  height  in  my  intellect,  I  beg  you,  I 
beseech  you  ...  do  not  misjudge  this 
impulse  that  urges  me  toward  you.  My 
life  in  this  moment  is  like  a  river  swollen 


ACT    SECOND,  SCENE    I  I09 

by  the  waters  of  spring,  clogged  with  an 
uprooted  forest,  that  cannot  find  an  outlet. 
You  alone  are  able  to  remove  this  imped- 
iment; you  alone,  with  a  blade  of  grass, 
with  the  stem  of  a  flower  in  your  little 
hand.  .   .  . 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Not    I,    not    I!       Your    dream    blinds 
you.  .  .  . 

Alessandro, 
You,  you  alone!  I  have  met  you  in  a 
iTream  as  I  meet  you  now  in  life.  You 
belong  to  me  as  if  you  were  my  own  crea- 
tion, made  by  my  hands,  inspired  by  my 
breath.  Your  image  is  beautiful  within 
me,  as  an  idea  is  beautiful  in  me.  When 
your  eyelids  quiver,  it  seems  to  me  that 
they  quiver  like  my  blood,  and  that  the 
shadows  of  your  eyelashes  touch  the  very 
bottom  of  my  heart.  ... 


THE    DEAD    CITY 


BiANCA  Maria,  as  if  lost. 
Be  silent!  Be  silent!     I  feel  like  suffo- 
cating.  .  .  .  Ah,  I  can  live  no  longer,  I 
can  live  no  longer! 

Alessandro. 
You  cannot  live  except  in  me,  because 
you  are  in  my  life,  as  your  voice  is  in  your 
mouth.  How  long  have  I  awaited  you! 
With  what  faith  have  I  awaited  you!  I  do 
not  ask  what  you  have  done  in  the  years 
during  which  we  remained  strangers  to 
each  other,  hidden  from  each  other,  in- 
visible to  each  other,  though  at  times  to- 
gether, though  at  times  breathing  under 
the  same  sky.  I  know  it,  I  know  it! 
You  have  immersed  your  soul  in  Mystery 
and  Beauty,  you  have  drunk  Poetry  at  the 
most  remote. fountains,  you  have  dreamed 
your  dreams  in  the  glory  of  the  loftiest 
destinies  ever  accomplished.  I  know,  I 
know  what  you  have  done  that  I  might 


ACT    SECOND,    SCENE    I 


find  the  antique  human  soul  present  in 
the  freshness  of  your  love.  .  .  . 

BiANCA  Maria,  in  utter  coyifusion. 
You  exalt  the  most  humble  of  all 
creatures  with  your  breath.  I  have  only 
been  a  good  sister;  everywhere  I  have 
carried  my  simple  tenderness  for  my 
brother  who  labored. 

Alessandro. 
But  did  not  another  being  live  beside 
the  good  sister?  She  breathed  upon  the 
golden  medals  of  Syracuse  scarcely  dug 
out  of  the  tarnishing  soil,  and  the  im- 
mortal impressions  became  bright  again 
under  the  warmth  of  her  fingers.  She 
knelt  beside  the  trenches  where  lay  the 
prostrate  statues,  freed  their  faces  from 
the  inert  crust,  and  saw  under  the  opaque 
clay,  the  serene  smile  of  a  life  divine. 
At  Marathon,  on  the  battlefield,  she  read. 


112  THE     DEAD     CITY 

with  eyes  full  of  tears,  the  names  of  the 
fallen  Athenians  inscribed  upon  a  heroic 
column;  and  at  Delphi  she  divined  the 
mystic  melody  of  the  paean  engraved  upon 
the  marble  of  a  sacred  shaft.  Wherever  a 
vestige  remained  of  the  grand  myths,  or  a 
fragment  of  the  beautiful  imagery,  into 
which  the  chosen  race  transfigured  the 
forces  of  nature,  she  passed  with  her  ani- 
mating grace,  journeying  lightly  the 
length  of  the  centuries,  like  the  song  of 
the  nightingale  along  a  country  strewn 
with  ruins.  .  .  . 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Who  was  she?  Am  I  to  recognize  my- 
self in  her?  For  you  everything  becomes 
transfigured!  I  have  only  been  a  weak, 
though  willing  helper;  the  joys  and  pains 
of  my  brother  were  my  joys  and  my 
pains.  My  heart  trembled  when  his  heart 
trembled.  .  .  . 


act  second,  scene  i  ii3 

Alessandro. 
Ah,  what  mystery,  what  beauty  is  there 
that  you  do  not  reflect  in  your  person? 
You  too,  you  too,  like  Cassandra,  whose 
ashes  and  whose  golden  ornaments  you 
have  gathered,  have  put  your  foot  upon 
the  threshold  of  the  Scasan  gate.  Across 
the  strata  of  the  seven  towns,  one  built 
on  top  of  the  other,  your  eyes  have  dis- 
cerned the  signs  of  the  fatal  fire,  prophe- 
sied by  the  indefatigable  voice  of  her  who 
now  lies  there  silent,  in  your  shadow. 
Has  the  illusion  of  time  not  yet  disap- 
peared for  you?  Is  the  distance  of  centu- 
ries not  yet  abolished  for  you?  It  was 
necessary  that  at  last  I  should  find  in  a 
living  and  beloved  creature,  that  unity  of 
life  to  which  the  whole  strength  of  my  art 
aspires.  You  alone  possess  the  divine 
secret.  When  your  hand  takes  the  dia- 
dem which  adorned  the  brow  of  the 
prophetess,   the  gesture  seems  to  evoke 


114  THE    DEAD    CITY 

the  antique  soul;  and  an  ideal  resurrec- 
tion seems  to  magnify  an  act  so  simple. 
There  is  in  you  a  life-giving  power  of 
which  you  yourself  are  unconscious.  The 
simplest  of  your  acts  suffices  to  reveal  to 
me  a  truth  of  which  I  was  ignorant.  And 
love  is  like  the  intellect:  it  shines  in  pro- 
portion to  the  truth  it  discovers.  Tell  me 
then,  tell  me:  what  seems  to  you  most 
sacred,  most  worthy  to  be  preserved 
and  exalted  above  any  obstacle  and 
against  any  interdiction. 

BiANCA  Maria,  powerless. 
No,  no  .  .  .  You  are  intoxicated  with 
your  own  emotions.  What  you  see  in 
me,  is  in  your  own  eyes.  Your  words 
create  out  of  nothing  the  image  you  wish 
to  love.  In  you,  in  you  is  all  the 
Dower.  .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
What  of  it?    What  of  it?    All  the  power 


ACT    SECOND,    SCENE    I  II5 

that  is  in  me  would  remain  shut  in  and 
would  be  wasted  in  a  thousand  little 
whirls  of  emotion,  if  the  divine  voluptu- 
ousness that  is  in  you  did  not  attract  and 
incite  it  to  manifest  itself  in  the  form  and 
in  the  words  of  joy.  Joy,  joy,  is  what  I 
ask  of  you!  The  other  day,  when  I  gave 
you  the  flowers,  traces  of  tears  were  on 
your  face;  but  around  you,  in  the  sun- 
shine, every  single  hair  on  your  head 
breathed  joy  impatiently.  I  must  be  free 
and  happy  in  the  fullness  of  your  love,  to 
find  at  last  the  celestial  harmony  sought 
by  more  than  one.  I  need  you!  I  need 
you! 

BiANCA  Maria,  sum?noning  all  her  straiglh. 
Well  then,  tell  me,  tell  me:  what  are  you 
going  to  do?  What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  me,  with  the  people  whom  I  love, 
whom  you  love?    Tell  me! 

A  pause. 


I  l6  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Alessandro. 
Let  destiny  be  accomplished.  .  .  . 

BiANCA  Maria. 

But  the  sorrow?  But  the  sorrow?  Do 
you  not  feel  that  a  cloud  of  grief  is  upon 
our  heads,  growing  denser  and  crushing 
us?  Do  you  not  feel  that  the  beloved 
souls  nearest  to  us  are  suffering  from 
their  divination  of  a  sin,  or  from  their  ap- 
prehension of  a  catastrophe  which  they  do 
not  know  how  to  meet?  A  moment  ago 
you  reminded  me  of  my  tears.  .  .  .  Ah, 
if  I  could  only  tell  you  all  the  anguish  of 
that  day, — if  I  could  only  tell  you  my 
misery  and  my  dismay!  She  knew,  she 
knew.  I  felt  that  she  knew.  Her  hands 
so  full  of  life — ah,  too  full  of  life! — dug 
into  my  soul  as  one  searches  a  garment 
for  the  most  hidden  folds.  An  unspeak- 
able torture!  My  secret  was  in  her  hands, 
and   she    plucked    it   as  one   plucks   the 


ACT    SECOND,   SCENE   I  II 7 


petals  of  a  cut  rose.  And  yet  I  felt 
in  her  I  know  not  what  sweetness, 
mingled  with  her  despair;  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  her  heart  was  in  turns  con- 
tracting like  a  knot  and  opening  like  a 
flower,  and  that  she  would  rise  eagerly 
toward  life,  ,  .  . 

A  pause. 

Alessandro,  hesitating. 
You  believe  that  she  is  sure? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
She  is  sure. 

A  pause. 

And  he?    You  do  not  think  that  he  has 
a  suspicion? 

Alessandro. 
Oh  no!     No  suspicion  lies  in  him.     I 
know  him  well.  ... 


Il8  THE     DEAD     CITY 


BiANCA  Maria, 
But  the  strange  change  in  him,  his 
£,ecret  and  almost  savage  sadness,  his  atti- 
tude toward  me.  ...  At  times  he  fixes 
upon  me  a  glance  I  cannot  bear.  When  I 
go  near  him,  when  I  take  his  hands,  it 
seems  sometimes  that  a  violent  aversion 
arises  in  all  his  being.  .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
You  are  mistaken,  Bianca  Maria.     He 
has     no     suspicion,    but     his     condition 
troubles  him  strangely.  .   .  . 

Bianca  Maria. 
His  condition!      Then  you  also  think 
that  he  is  really  ill? 

Alessandro. 
Hir.  nerves  are  strained  by  too  long  and 
too  fierce  a  tension.     Dark  imaginations 
must  torment  his  weakened  spirit.     Cer- 
tainly there    is    something   inexplicable 


ACT    SECOND,   SCENE   I  II9 

about  him.  .  .  .  But  he  will  speak  to 
me,  he  will  reveal  to  me  the  hallucination 
which  pursues  him;  he  will  confess  to  me 
his  terror.  A  man  cannot  with  impunity 
uncover  the  sepulchres  and  look  at  the 
faces  of  the  dead;  and  of  such  dead! 

A  pause. 

He  will  speak  to  me.  Last  night  he 
was  about  to  speak  .  .  .  I  will  find  him 
to-night.  You  do  not  know  where  he  has 
gone? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  to  the  foun- 
tain of  Perseus.  That  is  the  place  he 
prefers  when  he  desires  to  be  alone.  The 
water!  The  water!  Ah,  what  in  the 
world  is  more  beautiful  than  the  water? 
Everything  here  is  dried  up,  everywhere 
there  is  thirst,  thirst!  .  .  .  There  is  the 
only  refuge;  there  is  a  sweet  murmur  that 
soothes,  that  soothes  the  thoughts. 


I20  THE     DEAD     CITY 

She  leaves  the  table,  ivhere  the 
golden  relics  are^  moving  toivard 
the  balco7iy  with  a  slowness  al- 
most of  aba7idon. 

The  water!  The  water!  How  long 
since  I  saw  a  large  river  flowing  through 
green  meadows,  a  lake  in  a  wreath  of 
woods,  a  waterfall  whiter  than  snow.  .  .  . 

Alessandro,  pale  with  emotion,  stopping  her 
suddenly  on  her  way,  taking  her  hands. 

Ah,  beautiful,  beautiful,  beautiful,  and 
sweet,  indeed,  and  fresh,  in  truth,  like 
water  that  flows,  like  water  that 
quenches.  .  .  .  All  your  beauty,  ah,  it 
seems  all  your  beauty  inundates  my  senses 
like  living  water,  like  water  that  palpi- 
tates, that  trembles.  .  .  .  Ah,  beautiful, 
beautiful,  for  no  one  so  beautiful  as  for 
me! 

BiANCA  Maria,  faintly. 
Leave  me!  Leave  me,  Alessandro! 


ACT    SECOND,   SCENE  I 


Alessandro,  as  if  intoxicated. 
I  feel  the  love  well  up  in  all  your  veins, 
in  your  hair;  I  see  it  gush  forth  from 
under  your  eyelids.  ...  I  breathe  the 
aroma  of  the  tears  in  your  eyes.  .  .  . 
Your  whole  form  vanishes  into  mine.  .  .  . 
You  are  all  within  me,  like  a  nectar  that 
I  have  drunk.   .  .  . 

He  leans  over  to  kiss  her  lips. 
She  starts  back  amazed^  securely 
suppresshig  a  cry.  They  remain 
face  to  face^  panting^  unable  to 
speak. 

BiANCA  Maria,  shivering. 
Listen! 

Alessandro. 
What  is  it? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Her  voice. 

Both  stand  listening  for  a  moment. 


122  THE     DEAD     CITY 

It  is  her  voice,  it  is  her  voice.  She  is 
looking  for  you;  surely  she  is  looking  for 
you. 

Alessandro. 
Do  not  fear,  do  not  fear. 

BiANCA  Maria. 

She  knows  everything,  she  understands 
everything.  ...  It  is  not  possible  to 
conceal  ...  As  soon  as  she  crosses  the 
threshold  she  will  hear  our  pulses  beat. 
It  is  not  possible  to  hide.   .   .  . 

Alessandro,  with  sadness. 

We  need  not  hide  anything  from  a  soul 
that  deserves  to  hear  the  truth,  Bianca 
Maria. 

Bianca  Maria. 
But  the  pain,  but  the  pain.  .  .  . 


ACT    SECOND,   SCENE   I  lij 

Alessandro. 
She    is   the   slave   of   pain.      It   is  not 
given  to  us  to  do  anything  to  set  her  free. 
She  is  in  another  life. 

BIA^XA  Maria. 

In  another  life! 

She  bows  her  head  afid  moves 
toward  the  door. 


124  THE     DEAD     CITY 


SCENE   II 

Anna,  guided  by  The  Nurse  appears  upon 
the  threshold.  Her  whole  manner  expresses 
griefs  though  she  is  strangely  calm. 

Ann>>. 
Bianca  Maria! 

BiANCA  Maria,  taking  he^-  hand. 
Here  I  am. 

Anna. 
Go,  go,  nurse. 

The  Nurse  retires.  Bianca 
Maria  leads  the  blind  woman 
toward  Alessandro. 

Alessandro! 

Alessandro. 
I  am  here,  Anna. 

The  blind  woman  holds  out  her 
Itand  to  him.      He  grasps  it,  and 


ACT    SECOND,   SCENE   II  1 25 

she  remains  for  some  niomemts 
in  stle?jcc,  standing'  betiveen  the 
two.  Then  detachi7ig  herself  from 
hifn,  she  draws  Bianca  Maria 
toward  her. 

Anna. 
Give  me  a  kiss,  Bianca  Maria. 

She  kisses  her  07i  the  mouth. 

You  seem  to  have  been  away  from  me 
an  endless  time.  .  .  .  What  have  you 
been  doing? 

Bianca  Maria  confused,  hesi- 
tates to  answer. 

What  have  you  been  doing? 

Bianca  Maria,  bewildered. 
I  liave  been  here,  almost  all  day,  assist- 
ing my  brother. 

Alessandro  goes  to  the  bal- 
cony and  stands,  leaning  ofi  the 
railing,  looking  out  upo?t  the 
country. 


126  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Anna. 
This  is  the  room  of  the  golden  reiicsr 

BiANCA  Maria 
Tt  is. 

Anna. 
And  of  the  ashes? 

Bianca  Maria. 
And  of  the  ashes. 

Anna. 
Where  are  they? 

Bianca  Maria. 
Over  there,  in  the  copper  vases. 

An^a. 
Take  me  there.     I  should  like  to  touch 
them. 

Bianca  Maria,  leads  her  to  one  of  the 

cinerary  urtts. 
Here.    Here  are  the  ashes  of  Cassandra; 
there  the  ashes  of  the  King. 


ACT    SECOND.   SCENE   II 


Anna,  in  a  low  voice. 
Cassandra!     She,   too,   could  see.  .  .  . 
She  always  saw  around  her  misfortune  and 
death. 

She  hetids  over  the  urtt^  takes 
a  handful  of  ashes  atid  lets  them 
sift  throtigh  her  fingers. 

How  soft  these  ashes  are.  They  glide 
through  your  fingers  like  the  sands  of  the 
spa.  .  .  .  You  were  reading  her  words 
yesterday,  Alessandro.  Amid  the  terrible 
shouting  there  was  a  voice  infinitely 
sweet  and  sad.  The  old  men  compared 
her  to  a  "somber  nightingale."  .  .  . 
What  were  her  words  when  she  remem- 
bered her  beautiful  river?  And  when  the 
old  men  asked  her  about  the  love  of  the 
god?     Do  you  not  remember  them? 

BiANCA  Maria.  i 

He  does  not  hear  you,  Anna. 


128  the  dead  city. 

Anna. 
He  does  not  hear  me? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
He  is  on  the  balcony. 

Anna. 
Ah,  he  is  on  the  balcony. 

Bianca  Maria,  turning  to  the  balcony. 

He  is  looking-  at  the  sunset.  It  is  a 
marvelous  sunset.  Behind  the  cape  of 
Artemisium  the  whole  sky  is  on  fire.  The 
top  of  Arachnseus  burns  like  a  pyre.  The 
red  reflection  reaches  this  far,  and  strikes 
this  gold.  .    .    . 

Anna. 
Take  me  nearer  the  relics. 

Bianca  Maria,  conducting  her  to  one  of 
the  tables. 

Here  are  the  remains  of  Cassandra ! 


ACT    SECOND,    SCENE    II  1 29 

Anna,  touching  the7n  lightly. 
Is  her  mask  here? 

BiANCA  Maria  guiding  the  hattds  of  the  blind 
woinan. 
Here  it  is. 

Anna,  touching  the  golden  mask  with  her 
fingers. 
How  large  her  mouth  is.  The  terrible 
work  of  divination  dilated  it.  She  cried, 
imprecated,  lamented  without  rest.  Can 
you  imagine  her  with  a  silent  mouth? 
What  could  have  been  the  form  of  her 
grieving  lips  in  silence?  What  stupor, 
when  she  was  silent,  when  the  spirit 
granted  her  a  pause  between  two  clamors! 
To-night  I  should  like  to  have  you  read  to 
me  over  again  the  dialogue  between  Cas- 
sandra and  the  old  men.  Have  you  not 
in  your  memory,  her  words  when  she 
speaks  of  the  god  who  loved  her,  and  of 
the  elders  v/ho  asked  her  if  she  yielded  in 


130  THE     DEAD     CITY 


the  struggle?     She  appears  to  me  to  blush 

with    shame     at    that    moment "I 

promised,"   she  says,  "I  promised"  .  .  . 
Do  you  not  remember  her  words? 

BiANCA  Maria,  more  and  more  troubled. 
No,   Anna.      To-night   I   will    read   to 
you  .  .  . 

Anna. 
"I  promised  but  I  deceived  him,"  she 
says.  She  deceived  the  god,  who  took 
revenge  upon  her.  No  one  believed  her 
any  longer!  She  was  alone,  on  the  top  of 
a  tower,  with  her  truth. 

A   pause.      She    continues    to 
feel  of  the  relics. 

You  also,    like    Alessandro,   love  her, 
this  "somber  nightingale"? 

Bianca  Maria. 
Her  destiny  was  a  terrible  one.     She 
was  a  martyr.  .  .  . 


ACT    SECOND,   SCENE    II  131 

Anna. 

She  was  very  beautiful;  she  was  as 
beautiful  as  Venus.  Leonardo  saw  her 
face  under  the  golden  mask!  It  is 
strange,  but  it  seems  as  if  I  also  had  seen 
it.  .  .  .  What  color  do  you  think  were 
her  eyes? 

BiANCA   Maria. 
Black,  may  be. 

Anna. 
They  were  not  black,  but  they  seemed 
to  be  because  the  pupils  were  so  dilated 
with  her  prophetic  ardor  that  they  de- 
voured the  iris.  I  think,  when  she 
paused,  when  she  wiped  the  foam  from 
her  livid  lips,  her  eyes  were  soft  and  sad 
like  two  violets.  Such  must  they  have 
been  before  closing  forever.  Do  you  re- 
member, Bianca  Maria,  her  last  words? 
Do  you  not  recollect  them? 


132  THE    DEAD     CITY 

BiANCA   Maria. 
To-night    I    will    read    them    to   you, 
Anna.  .  .  . 

Anna. 
She  speaks  of  a  shadow  that  passes  over 
everything  and  of  a  damp  sponge  that 
obliterates  all  traces.  Is  it  not  so?  "And 
over  this,"  she  says,  "and  over  this  I 
grieve  more  than  over  all  else."  These 
are  her  last  words. 

A  pause.      She  hvlds  in   Iter 
haftds  a  golden  pair  of  scales. 
Listen! 

Bianca   Maria. 
They  are  the  falcons  of  the  mountain  of 
Eubcea,  screaming. 

Anna. 
How  they  scream  to-night! 

Bianca   Maria. 
When  the  air  is  burning  they  scream 
still  louder. 


act  second,  scene  ii  1 33 

Anna. 
Why  do  they  scream?  I  should  like 
to  understand  the  voices  of  the  birds,  as 
the  prophetess  did.  I  did  not  know  that 
episode  of  her  infancy,  which  Alessandro 
told  me.  She  was  left  one  night  in  the 
temple  of  Apollo;  and  in  the  morning 
she  was  found  stretched  on  the  marble 
wrapped  in  the  folds  of  a  serpent  that 
was  licking  her  ears.  After  that  she 
understood  all  the  voices  of  the  air.  She 
would  understand  to-day  the  screaming  of 
the  falcons. 

BiANCA  Maria,  iti  ecstasy. 
Cries  of  joy!  Cries  of  joy!  Such  beauti- 
ful and  proud  creatures,  if  you  could  see 
them!  They  are  full  of  vigorous  and  ag- 
gressive life.  They  have  the  colors  of  the 
rocks;  brown  wings,  reddish  body,  a 
whitish  breast  and  grey  head.  Nothing 
is  more  graceful  and  more  ferocious  than 


134  THE    DEAD    CITY 

the  little  grey  head,  with  its  shining  black 
eyes  in  yellow  circles.  Day  before  yes- 
terday when  I  was  looking  at  them  in 
the  sky,  one  of  the  guards  shot  one  in  the 
breast  with  his  gun.  It  fell  almost  at  my 
feet,  and  I  picked  it  up.  Though  hurt 
to  death,  it  attempted  to  seize  my  hand. 
Blood  suffocated  it  and  ran  down  its 
beak;  a  sort  of  a  sob  shook  it,  while 
the  red  drops  fell  one  by  one.  The  eyes 
became  dim,  the  claws  contracted,  the 
little  head  sank  upon  its  breast.  Another 
bleeding  sigh.  It  was  the  last.  There 
remained  in  my  hand  only  a  clod.  .  .  . 
And  that  life,  so  free  and  so  violent  had,  a 
few  moments  before,  throbbed  in  the  sky! 

Anna. 
How    you    speak    of    life   and    death, 
Bianca  Maria! 

A  pause. 

Is  Alessandro  on  the  balcony? 


ACT    SECOND,   SCENE   II  135 

BiANCA  Maria. 
He  is. 

Anna. 

What  is  he  doing? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
He  is  looking  far  away. 

A  pause. 

Anna. 

What  is  this  thing  I  have  in  my  hands? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
It  is  a  pair  of  scales. 

Anna. 
Ah,  a  pair  of  scales! 

She  touches  the  two  scales. 
Was    it   upon    the  breast   of   the  dead 
princess? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Upon  her  breast. 


136  the   dead   city 

Anna. 
In  order  to    weigh  destiny!     But  it  is 
not   true,  is    it?     It  is   not   accurate.     It 
seems  to  me  it  inclines  to  one  side.  .  .  . 

BiANCA  Maria. 
It  is  spoiled.     One  of  the  golden  chains 
that  hold  the  two  scales  is  missing  on  one 
side. 

Anna. 

On  which  side? 

Alessandro,  co7ning  in  from  the  balcony. 
There  is  Leonardo!     Leonardo  is  com- 
ing! 

BiANCA    Maria. 
Where  from? 

Alessandro. 
From  the  fountain  of  Perseus. 


.ACT    SECOND,   SCENE    II  137 

Anna,  layt?ig  down  the  scales. 
Shall  wc  go  down  to  the  fountain  of 
Perseus,  Bianca  Maria?  Will  you  take 
me  there?  We  can  sit  upon  the  stone 
i5ear  the  pool  for  a  little  while  and 
breathe  the  refreshing  perfume  of  the 
mint  and  the  myrtle  that  is  so  whole- 
some. 

Bianca  Maria. 
I  will  go  with  you,  Anna.     Here  is  my 
arm. 


138  THE     DEAD     CITY 


SCENE    III 

Leonardo  enters  and  ltir?is  his  searching, 
troubled  gaze  upon  each  one.  His  7nanucr 
expresses  incessant  uneasiness  and  the  painful 
effort  at  sclf-co?itrol. 

Leonardo,  going  up  to  Anna  tvith  signs  of 
affection. 
Ah,  you  are  here,  too,  Anna.  .  .  . 

Anna. 
Did  you  come  from  the  fountain? 

Leonardo, 
Yes,  I  came  from  there.  ...  I  go  down 
there  almost  every  day  toward  sunset. 
It  is  the  hour  when  the  myrtle  becomes 
as  pungent  as  incense,  and  almost  pro- 
duces a  stupor.  To-night  it  is  very 
strong;  it  seems  to  permeate  the  water. 
When  I  drank,  I  seemed  to  taste  in  the 
water  the  essential  oil.  . 


act  second,  scene  iii  1 39 

Anna. 
Did  you  hear,  Bianca  Maria? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Do  you  wish  to  go,  Anna?     Here  is  my 
arm. 

Anna,  taking  the  arm  of  her  guide. 

We  are  going  down   to   the   fountain. 
.  .  .  Alessandro,  has  the  sun  set? 

Alessandro,  071  the  threshold  of  the  balcony. 
It  has  set. 

Anna. 
Is  there  no  more  light? 

Alessandro. 
Yes,  there  is  still  a  little. 

Anna. 
Why  do  the  falcons  scream? 


140  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Alessandro, 
They    cry    until    late;    until    the   first 
stars.  .  .  . 

Anna. 
Good-bye. 

She  goes  out  with  Bianca  Maria. 


ACT    SECOND,    SCENE    IV  141 


SCENE  IV 

Alessandro  remains  on  the  balcony ^  his 
hack  c^^atnst  one  of  the  jambs  of  the  door,  still 
looking  at  the  country .  Leonardo,  with  his 
eyes,  folloivs  his  sister  as  she  leads  the  blind 
wom^n  over  the  threshold. 

Alessandro. 
What  is  that  fire  over  there  upon  the 
summit  of  Larissa?  Look!  One,  two, 
three  fires.  .  .  .  Another  fire  there  below 
Lycone.  Do  you  see?  Do  you  see  the 
columns  of  smoke?  They  seem  motion- 
less. iNot  a  breath  of  air  is  stirring.  What 
an  enaless  calm!  It  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  most  solemn  nights  that  I 
have  ever  witnessed. 

A  pause.  Leonardo  ap- 
proaches his  friefid,  places  a  hand 
upon  his  shoidder  with  a  frater- 
nal gesture  and  remaifis  siletit. 


142  THE    DEAD     CITY 

Look  at  the  color  and  the  lines  of  the 
mountains  against  the  sky!  Every  time  I 
look  at  them  in  the  evening,  I  feel  for  a 
moment  a,  spontaneous  adoration  toward 
their  divinity.  In  no  other  land  does  one 
feel  as  in  this,  that  there  is  something- 
sacred  in  the  view  of  distant  mountains 
Is  it  not  so? 

Leonardo,  in  an  altered  voice. 
It  is  true.     One  must  pray  to  the  moun- 
tains, they  are  pure. 

Alessandro. 
How  pure  they  are  to-night!  Thev 
seem  to  be  made  of  sapphire.  Arach- 
naeus  only  is  still  red;  its  top  is  always 
the  last  to  go  out.  But  what  are  thos<* 
fires?  They  multiply,  they  spread  over 
the  hills,  down  to  the  plain.  .  .  .  Look, 
below  Larissa  there  is  a  wreath  of  them. 
It  is  stranere  that  the  columns  of  smoke 


ACT    SECOND,     SCENE    IV  143 

should  be  so  white.  They  seem  to  be 
illuminated  by  another  light,  by  an  invis- 
ible moon,  do  they  not?  They  are  relig- 
ious columns  and  perhaps  they  carry  the 
supplications  of  men. 

Leonardo. 
Perhaps.    Men  implore  for  rain,  for  the 
thirsty  soil. 

Alpssandro. 
This  drought  is  terrible. 

A  pause.  Leonardo  moves  a 
few  steps  into  the  room,  where  it 
begifis  to  grow  dark  armind  the 
treasures,  sparkling  confusedly. 
He  is  incapable  of  restra.i7iing  his 
agitatio?i.  He  approaches  the 
table  where  lie  the  relics  of  Cas- 
sandra. Alessandro  follows 
him  with  an  anxious  look. 

Ah,  see  if  the  jewels  of  Cassandra  are 
well  arranged.     Bianca  Maria  was  putting 


144  THE    DEAD    CITY 

them  in  order  when  I  came  to  look  for 
you.  I  wished  to  help  her;  but  then  .  .  . 
we  talked  .  .  .  and  the  hour  passed  in  a 
moment.  .  .  .  We  spoke  of  you  too, 
Leonardo. 


Leonardo,  excited. 


Of  me? 


Alessandro. 
Of  you;  of  your  secret.  .  .  . 

Leonardo,  turning  pale. 
My  secret? 

Alessandro,   approaching  his  friend   and 
taking  his  hand  gently. 

What  is  the  matter  with  you?  Tell  me, 
what  is  the  matter  with  you?  Why  do 
you  tremble  so? 

Leonardo. 
I  do  not  know  why  I  tremble. 


act  second,  scene  iv  145 

Alessando. 
Am  I  no  longer  the  brother  of  your 
soul?  So  many  days  I  have  waited  for 
you  to  speak  to  me,  to  confess  to  me  your 
trouble.  .  .  .  Have  you  no  longer  faith 
in  me?  Am  I  no  longer  for  you  the  one 
who  understands  everything  and  to  whom 
you  may  tell  everything? 

Leonardo,  repressing  the  a7iguish  tvhich  suf- 
focates him. 
Yes,  yes,  Alessandro,  you  are  still  the 
one.  What  do  I  not  owe  you?  What  was 
1  before  knowing  you,  before  communing 
with  your  soul?  What  was  I?  I  owe  you 
everything;  the  revelation  of  life.  .  .  . 
You  have  caused  me  to  live  by  your 
flame;  you  have  brought  to  life  around 
me  all  things  that  were  dead  before.  .  .  . 
Ah,  what  would  all  that  treasure  be  to  me, 
if  I  had  not  known  you?  Useless  dross! 
You,  you  alone  have  made  me  worthy  to 
witness  a  prodigy.   ... 


146  the  dead   city 

Alessandro. 
And  now?     Now  I   can  do  nothing  for 
your  happiness? 

Leonardo,  confused. 
I    do    not    know    the    nature    of    my 
trouble.    ...    I    do    not    know  what  it 
is.  .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
My  poor  friend!  For  two  years  now, 
two  long  years  you  have  been  here  in  this 
arid  country,  at  the  feet  of  these  bare 
mountains,  shut  up  in  a  ditch  of  the  dead 
city,  delving  in  the  earth,  delving  in  the 
earth  with  those  frightful  phantoms 
always  standing  before  your  eyes  in  the 
burning  dust.  .  .  .  How  is  it  that  your 
strength  has  not  given  out  before  this? 
For  two  years  you  have  been  breathing 
the  murderous  exhalations  of  the  hidden 
sepulchres,  bent  under  the  horror  of  the 


ACT    SECOND,     SCENE    IV  147 

most  tragic  destiny  that  has  ever  devoured 
a  human  race.  How  have  you  been  able 
to  resist?  How  is  it  you  were  not  afraid 
of  losing  your  mind?  You  look  like  one 
poisoned;  and  at  times  I  have  seen  in 
your  eyes  the  glint  of  madness. 

Leonardo. 
Yes,  yes,  it  is  true;  I  have  been  pois- 
oned.   .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
Why  did  you  refuse  to  listen  to  me? 
When  you  called  me,  when  I  came  here, 
you  had  already  been  taken  with  the 
wicked  fever.  I  foresaw  the  danger.  .  .  . 
I  wished  to  tear  you  away  from  that  fixed 
idea,  take  you  elsewhere,  interrupt  the 
terrible  work.  Do  you  not  remember? 
We  should  have  passed  the  spring  at 
Zante  by  the  sea,  not  far  away.  .  .  .  But 
your   obstinacy  was   unconquerable;    the 


148  THE    DEAD    CITY 

sorcery  had  already  taken  hold  of  you. 
.  .  .  But  now  you  must  leave  without 
delay.  You  must  go  to  the  water,  to  the 
woods,  to  the  green  fields.  .  .  .  You  need 
the  soothing  embrace  of  a  beautiful  green 
land;  you  must  sleep,  and  your  dreams 
must  sink  deep  into  green  herbs;  new 
thoughts  must  enter  into  your  soul,  little 
by  little.  ... 

Leonardo. 
Yes,  yes,  you  are  right;  we  must  leave 
here,  we  must  go  far  away.  .  .  .  But 
where?  Where?  .  .  .  And  she  also.  .  .  . 
She  also,  my  sister,  Bianca  Maria  .  .  . 
should  go  with  us.  .  .  .  She,  too,  should 
go  with  us.  .  .  . 

Alessandro,  troubled^  hesitating. 
She  too,  .  .  .  Do  you  not  think  that 
she  also  is  oppressed,  that  she  also  needs 
to  breathe,  to  live.  .  .  .  She  grieves  for 
5^ou,  she  weeps  for  you.  .  .  . 


ACT    SECOND,     SCENE    IV  t/iq 

Leonardo. 
She  weeps?    Weeps? 

Alessandro. 
She  fears  that  you  love  her  no  longer, 
that  you  feel  for  her  no  more  the  tender- 
ness of  old.  .  .  . 

Leonardo,  deadly  pale  and  hoarse. 
The    tenderness    of    old.     .     .     .    She 
weeps?    She  weeps? 

Alessandro,  seizing  his  hands  anew^  almost 
with  violence. 

What    is    the    matter    with   you   now? 
What  is  it?    Why  do  you  tremble  so? 

Leonardo,  with  a  desperate  impulse. 
Ah,  if  you  could  only  save  me  I 

Alessandro. 
I  must,  I  will  save  you,  Leonardo. 


150  THE    DEAD    CITY 


Leonardo. 
You   cannot,    you    cannot.    ...  I    am 
lost. 

He  takes  a  few  aimless  steps 
about  the  room;  goes  toward  the 
balcony ;  goes  toivard  the  door, 
closes  it  and  turns  to  A  less  an - 
DRO,  staggering  as  if  attacked  by 
a  sudden  fit  of  delirium. 

What  can  I  tell  you?  How  can  I  tell  you? 
.  .  .  Ah,  it  is  horrible,  horrible.   .   .  . 

Alessandro,   struck  by  the  gesture  arid  the 
words. 
Leonardo! 

Leonardo  lets  himself  fall  upon  a  chair  and 
presses  his  temples  with  the  palms  of  his 
hands. 

A  horrible  thing! 

Alessandro,  again  taking  his  hands  and 
bending  toward  his  face,  in  the  sJiade. 

Do  speak,  do  speak!     Do  you  not  see 
that  you  are  wringing  my  heart? 


act  second,  scene  iv  151 

Leonardo. 
Yes,  I  will  speak,  I  will  tell  you.  .  .  . 
But  do  not  look  at  me  so  close;  do  not 
hold  my  hands.  .  .  .  Sit  there.  .  .  . 
Walt.  .  .  .  Wait  until  it  is  darker.  ...  I 
will  tell  you.  ...  I  must  tell  you  .  .  . 
you  .   .   .  you  alone  ...  a  horrible  thing! 

Alessandro,  seating  himself  at  a  little  dis- 
tance and  speaking  ifi  a  low  voice.,  oppressed 
with  anxiety. 

Here,  I  will  sit  here.  ...  I  am  wait- 
iiig.  ...  I  am  waiting.  .  .  .  You  are  in 
the  shade,  ...  I  scarcely  see  you.  .  .  . 
Speak ! 

Leonardo. 

How  am  I  to  tell  it? 

A  pause.     The  two  are  sitting 
opposite  each  other  in  the  dusk, 
brightened  only   by  the  light   of 
the  golden  treasure.      When  Leo- 
nardo resumes,  his  voice  is  hoarse 


152  THE     DEAD     CITY 

and  broken.  Alessandro  listens 
motionless,  as  if  his  whole  being 
were  cojitracted  with  anguish. 

Ah,  you  know  her,  you  know  her.  .  .  . 

You  know  how  sweet,  how  tender,   how 

pure  she  is    .    .    .    my  sister.    .    .    .    You 

know  what  she  has  been  to  me,  during 

the  years  of  solitude  and  of  labor.    ,    .    . 

She  has  been  the  perfume  of  my  life,  the 

rest  and  the  refreshment,  the  advice  and 

the    comfort,     and    the    dream,    and    the 

poetry,  and  everything.   .       .  You  know, 

you  know.  .  .  . 

A  pause. 

What  other  joys  did  my  youth  know? 
What  other  woman  crossed  my  path? 
None.  My  blood  ran  without  being 
troubled.  ...  I  lived  as  if  under  a  vow; 
I  trembled  only  for  the  beauty  of  the 
statues  that  I  unearthed.  .  .  .  Our  life 
has  always  been  as  pure  as  a  prayer,  in 
the  solitude.  .  .  .  Ah,  that  solitude.  .  .  . 


ACT    SECOND,    SCENE    IV  I53 

How  long,  how  long  have  we  lived  side 
by  side,  brother  and  sister,  alone,  alone 
and  happy,  like  two  children.  ...  I  ate 
the  fruit  upon  which  was  the  mark  of  her 
teeth,  and  I  drank  the  water  from  the 
hollow  of  her  hand. 

A  pause. 

Alone,  always  alone,  in  places  full  of 
light!  .  .  .  Now,  imagine  one  who  uncon- 
sciously drinks  a  poison,  a  philter,  some- 
thing impure  which  poisons  his  blood 
and  contaminates  his  soul  all  of  a  sud- 
den when  his  mind  is  at  peace.  .  .  . 
Imagine  such  an  incredible  misfortune! 
.  .  .  Take  an  ordinary  hour  of  your  exist- 
ence, an  hour  similar  to  many  others;  it 
is  a  wintry  day,  lucid  ^and  clear  as  a 
diamond;  everything  is  light,  everything 
is  visible  from  near  and  far.  You  return 
from  your  work;  your  mind  relaxes;  you 
discover  nothing  strange  in  yourself,  nor 
in  things;   your  breath  is  calm,  your  soul 


154  THE     DEAD     CITY 

is  at  peace,  your  life  passes  as  it  did  yes- 
terday, in  its  continuity  from  the  past 
toward  the  future.  .  .  .  You  return  to  your 
home,  filled  with  light  and  quiet  as  it  was 
the  day  before;  you  open  a  door,  you 
enter  a  room,  .  .  .  and  you  see  her  .  .  . 
her,  your  innocent  companion,  asleep  be- 
fore the  fire,  tinged  by  the  rosy  flame, 
her  small  naked  feet  exposed  to  the 
heat.  You  look  at  her  and  smile.  And 
while  you  smile,  a  sudden  and  involun- 
tary thought  flashes  across  your  mind; 
an  unclean  thought,  against  which  your 
whole  being  rebels  with  trembling.  .  .  . 
In  vain!  In  vain!  The  thought  persists, 
grows  in  strength,  becomes  monstrous, 
dominates  you.  .  .  .  Ah,  is  this  possible? 
.  .  .  It  enslaves  you,  permeates  your 
blood,  and  invades  all  your  senses.  You 
are  its  prey,  its  miserable,  trembling  prey; 
your  whole  soul,  your  pure  soul  is  in- 
fected; and  everything  in  you  is  stained 


ACT    SECOND,   SCENE   IV  155 

with  contamination.       .   .  Ah,  is  it  cred- 
ible? 

He  jumps  to  his  feet,  observing 
that  Alessandro  trembles  in  the 
darkness.  His  zvhole  body  is 
shaken  as  by  a  chill  of  fever.  He 
takes  a  few  steps  toivard  the 
balcony,  then  returns  to  his  seat 
again.  Alessandro' s  eyes  are 
wide  open  afid  fixed  upon  him. 

Now  imagine  my  life  here  in  this  house, 
with  her  and  with  that  monster.  Here  in 
the  house,  whether  full  of  light  or  of 
darkness,  1  alone  with  her!  ...  A  des- 
perate and  secret  struggle,  without  rest, 
without  escape,  day  and  night,  in  every 
hour  and  every  moment  growing  more 
atrocious  as  it  drew  toward  me  the  unsus- 
pecting pity  of  the  poor  creature.  .  .  . 
Nothing  availed:  neither  the  furious 
work,  nor  the  almost  beast-like  weariness, 
nor  the  stupor  which  the  sun  and  dust 
caused  me,  nor  the  daily  excitement  of 


156  THE     DEAD     CITY 

finding  promising  traces  in  the  soil  which 
I  turned  up.  Nothing,  nothing  served  to 
overcome  the  horrible  fever,  to  interrupt 
for  some  instants  at  least,  the  wicked 
insanity.  I  have  closed  my  eyes  when  I 
saw  her  coming  toward  me  from  a  dis- 
tance, and  my  eyelids  were  upon  my  eyes 
as  fire  upon  fire.  And  while  the  throbbing 
of  my  blood  deafened  my  ears,  I  thought, 
with  an  agony  that  seemed  to  be  that  of 
death:  "Ah,  if  upon  re-opening  my  eyes 
I  could  look  at  her  as  I  looked  at  her 
once,  seeing  in  her  only  the  saintly 
sister!"  And,  to  free  my  miserable  soul 
from  this  evil,  my  will-power  shook  it 
with  a  violence  and  with  the  mad  terror 
of  one  who  shakes  his  garments  in  which 
a  snake  is  hidden.  Useless,  ever  useless! 
She  came  to  me  with  her  usual  step,  I  am 
sure,  but  it  seemed  different  to  me,  and 
troubled  me  like  ambiguous  language. 
And  the  uneasier  and  sadder  she  found 


ACT    SECOND,    SCENE    IV  157 

me  to  be,  the  sweeter  she  became.  And 
when  her  calm  hands  touched  me,  all  my 
bones  trembled  and  shook  with  cold,  my 
heart  stopped  beating,  my  brow  was 
bathed  in  perspiration  and  my  hair  rose 
as  in  deadly  fear.  .  .  .  Ah,  far  worse  than 
death  was  the  fear  that  she  might  guess 
the  truth,  the  terrible  truth! 

A  pause. 

The  night!  The  night!  If  the  light 
was  frightful,  the  darkness  was  more 
frightful  yet;  the  darkness  warm  with 
breathing,  the  darkness  which  brings  hal- 
lucinations and  delirium.  .  .  .  She  slept 
in  the  room  adjoining  mine.  Every 
evening,  on  the  threshold,  she  offered  her 
cheek  to  me,  before  retiring;  from  her 
bed  she  spoke  to  me  at  times,  through  the 
wall.  .  .  .  Listening,  I  could  hear  her 
regular  breath  in  sleep,  during  my  wake- 
ful anguish.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to 
sleep!     It  seemed  that  my  eyelids  would 


158  THE     DEAD     CITY 

burn  my  eyes,  that  my  eyelashes  were 
like  pins  over  a  wound.  .  .  .  And  the 
heavy  hours  died  away,  one  after  the 
other;  the  dawn  came,  and  with  the  dawn 
came  sleep -upon  intolerable  weariness, 
and  with  the  sleep,  the  dreams.  .  .  .  Oh, 
the  dreams,  the  infamous  dreams,  against 
which  the  spirit  cannot  defend  itself!  It 
is  better  to  lie  awake,  better  to  suffer  tor- 
ture upon  the  pillow  as  if  upon  the  fire, 
better  to  agonize  in  weariness.  .  .  .  Do 
you  understand?  Do  you  understand? 
When  at  last  sleep  falls  upon  your 
misery,  suddenly  like  a  crushing  shock, 
when  the  poor  flesh  becomes  dull  and 
heavy  as  lead,  when  all  your  being  longs 
to  die,  to  die  for  a  time, — do  you  under- 
stand?— the  desperate  struggle  against  the 
cravings  of  nature,  in  the  fear  of  falling, 
during  sleep,  an  unresisting  prey  to  the 
repulsive  monster.  ...  I  wake  up  terror- 
stricken,    as    if  after   a   crime,    my   flesh 


im 


ACT    SECOND,    SCENE    IV  159 

c.eeping  with  horror,  not  knowing 
whether  I  have  only  been  dreaming  or 
whether  I  am  guilty  of  a  mortal  sin,  more 
tired  than  before,  more  miserable  and 
hating  the  light — I  who  fear  darkness, — 
with  an  instinctive  desire  to  hang  my 
head  and  gaze  upon  the  ground  like  a 
dumb  brute.   .  .  . 

Alessandro,  in  a  suffocated  voice,  entirely 
changed. 

Stop!     Stop! 

He  rises,  convulsively,  ufiable 
to  control  his  pain;  he  goes  to  the 
balcony,  draws  a  deep  breath,  atid 
turns  his  face  to  tlie  starry  sky. 


Leonardo. 
Ah,    I   suffocate  you.      Look,    look  at 
the    stars!     Breathe,    you    who    may  do 
so.  .  .  . 


l6o  THE     DEAD    CITY 

Alessandro,  softly,  approaching  him  and' 
touching  his  head  with  a  trembling  liand. 

Stop  now!    Stop!     Nothing  more.  . 

He  takes  a  few  steps  in  the 
darktiess,  staggering ;  goes  toward 
the  door,  opens  it,  looks  out,  closes 
it  again;  theti  returns  to  Leo- 
nardo, whose  face  is  bozved  in  his 
hands,  and  touches  his  head.  He 
returns  to  the  balcony.  Leo- 
nardo rises  a?id  joins  him.  In 
silence,  side  by  side,  they  look  at 
the  country,  dotted  with  red  fires, 
in  the  calm,  pure  night. 


ACT    THIRD 


ACT  THIRD 

The  same  room  as  in  the  first  act.  The 
large  loggia  is  open:  through  the  opening 
between  the  columns  is  seen  the  sky  of 
night,  glittering  with  stars.  A  candle  burns 
upon  the  table  loaded  zvith  relics.  The  si- 
lence is  profound. 


163 


SCENE  I 

Anna  is  seated  near  the  steps ;  the  breezes  of 
the  night  fan  her  white  face  raised  to  the 
stars,  invisible  to  her.  When  she  speaks,  a  sin- 
gular indefinable  animation  thrills  in  her  voice, 
like  a  soft  breeze.  The  Nurse  is  kneeling 
before  her,  sad  and  resigned. 


164 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE    I  165 


Anna,  holding  out  her  hands  to  the  night. 

A  little  breath  of  air  comes  from  time 
to  time.  ...  A  little  wind  is  stirring,  is 
it  not,  nurse?  Do  you  not  smell  the 
myrtle? 

The  Nurse. 
The  wind  rises  from  the  earth. 

Anna. 

The  earth  is  breathing.  A  while  ago 
when  I  went  down  to  the  fountain  with 
Bianca  Maria  not  a  breath  of  air  could  be 
felt:  none!  It  was  a  perfect  calm, 
without  change.  We  did  not  speak  a 
word,  lest  we  disturb  it.  The  fountain 
only  wept  and  laughed.  .  .  .  Have  you 
ever  listened  to  the  voice  of  the  fountain, 
nurse? 


l66  THE    DEAD    CITY 

The  Nurse. 
The  water  always  says  the  same  thing. 

Anna. 
It  does  not,  it  does  not.  We  did  not 
speak  a  word,  Bianca  Maria  and  I,  and 
the  water  said  an  infinity  of  things  which 
entered  my  soul  like  an  eloquent  plead- 
ing. ...  It  has  persuaded  me  to  do  the 
one  necessary  thing,  nurse.  That  good, 
pure  water  that  comes  from  the  depths, 
from  the  depths.  .  .  . 

The  Nurse,  uneasily. 
What  are  you  going  to  do?    What  are 
you  going  to  do? 

Anna. 
I  v/ish  to  go  away,  go  far,  far  away. 

The  Nurse. 
You  wish  to  go!     Where? 


ACT    THIRD,   SCENE    I  167 

Anna,  brokenly  and  volubly. 
You  will  know,  you  will  know.  .  .  .  Do 
not  get  excited;  be  tranquil,  poor  nurse. 
I  shall  travel  that  road  without  you  to 
guide  me.  I  shall  no  longer  need  to  lean 
upon  you,  my  poor  nurse.  Light  will  be 
granted  to  my  eyes.  .  .  .  What  did  you 
say  the  other  day  about  my  eyes?  "Why 
should  the  Lord  have  left  them  so  beauti- 
ful, if  he  did  not  mean  to  illuminate  them 
once  more?"  Do  you  see,  nurse?  I  re- 
member your  words,  and  now  I  know  that 
my  eyes  are  beautiful! 

The  Nurse. 
How  you  talk  to-night!   There  is  some- 
thing behind  your  speech.  .  .  .   But  I  am 
a  poor  old  woman. 

Anna,  seized  by  suddeji  emotio?i,  places  her 
hafids  upon  the  shoulders  of  her  nurse. 

You  are  my  dear  old  friend,   my  first 
and   my   last    love,    nurse.     I    have   still 


l68  THE    DEAD     CITY 

some  drops  of  your  milk  in  the  blood  of 
my  heart,  dear  nurse!  Ah,  your  breast  is 
dry,  but  your  kindness  has  become 
greater  every  day.  You  led  me  by  the 
hand  when  my  little  feet  did  not  know 
how  to  take  a  step,  and  now  you  lead  me 
with  the  same  faithful  patience  through 
this  horrible  darkness.  You  are  a  saint, 
nurse.  I  hold  a  paradise  for  you  in  ray 
soul.  ... 

The  Nurse. 
Now  you  want  to  make  me  weep.  .  .  . 

Anna,  throwing  her  arms  aroujid  her  jteck. 
Ah,  forgive  me,  forgive!     I  must  make 
you  weep. 

The  Nurse,  frightened,  freeing  herself  from 
the  embrace  and  looking  Aa^h  in  the  face. 

Why,  why  do  you  speak  so?     Why  do 
you  strangle  me  so? 


ACT    THIRD,  SCENE   I  169 

Anna,  trying  to  allay  her  a?ixtety. 
Oh,    no,    no,    .    .    .    nothing,    nothing. 
...   1  spoke  so  because  I  can  now  give 
you  no  other  joy,   poor  nurse,   no  other 
joy.   .   .  . 

The  Nurse. 
You  are  hiding  nothing  from  me,   are 
you?     You  could  not  deceive  your  poor 
friend,  could  you?    You  could  not  deceive 
her.   .  .   . 

Anna. 
No,  no.  Forgive  me.  I  do  not  know 
what  I  am  saying  to-night,  nor  understand 
my  feelings.  ...  I  am  strangely  talka- 
tive. A  while  ago  I  felt  so  light,  as  if  I 
could  fly;  I  felt  almost  merry:  and  I 
talked  and  talked.  .  .  And  then  sud- 
denly sadness  came  over  me  and  I  gave 
you  pain.  .  .  .  Now  I  feel  better,  almost 
well,  after  having  embraced  you,   nurse. 


lyo  THE    DEAD    CITY 

I  wish  you  would  hold  me  in  your  lap  and 
tell  me  of  the  little  things  of  long  ago 
that  you  remember  about  me,  about  me 
when  my  mother  was  living.  .  .  .  Do  you 
remember?    Do  you  remember? 

A  pause. 

Ah,  why  have  I  not  had  a  son,  the  son 
that  he  wished  to  have — why?  I  should  be 
saved  now.  I  should  be  safe!  No  mother 
ever  loved  the  offspring  of  her  blood,  as 
I  would  have  loved  mine.  Everything 
else  would  have  seemed  nothing  to  me. 
I  should  have  continually  poured  the 
sweetest  part  of  my  life  into  his.  Con- 
tinually I  should  have  watched  the  little 
divine  soul  in  order  to  recognize,  every 
moment,  the  resemblance,  the  only  resem- 
blance; his  affection  would  have  been 
dearer  to  me  than  the  light.  .  .  .  But  the 
same  Judge  has  made  me  blind  and  child- 
less: an   atonement   for  what  sin,    nurse? 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE    I  171 

Tell  me!    What  great  fault  has  been  com- 
mitted? ... 

A  pause,  The   Nurse's  eyes 
are  full  of  tears. 

How  soon  my  mother  left  me!  She  had 
me,  she  had  me;  she  adored  me,  and  still 
she  was  not  happy.  .  .  .  You  know  it,  do 
you  not?  You  know  it  well.  You  know 
why  she  died.  You  will  not  tell  me, 
nurse,  why  she  died  .  .  .  and  how  she 
died. 

The  Nurse,  troubled  and  hesitating. 
It  was  a  fever,  a  sudden  violent  fever 
which  carried  her  off  in  one  night.     Did 
you  not  know  that? 

Anna. 

Ah  no,  no;  it  was  not  a  fever.  Why 
have  you  never  been  willing  to  tell  mc  the 
truth? 


IJ2  THE     DEAD     CITY 

The  Nurse. 
Is  that  not  the  truth? 

Anna. 
It  is  not,  it  is  not!  In  the  evening,  my 
mother  stood  at  my  bedside,  and  while  I 
was  falling  asleep,  I  felt  her  kisses  upon 
my  face,  and  something  warm,  like  tears. 
.  .  .  Ah,  sleep  was  so  strong,  it  conquered 
the  vague  pain  in  my  little  heart;  and  in  the 
dying  twilight  of  consciousness  it  seemed 
that  she  let  drop  upon  my  face,  upon  my 
neck,  upon  my  hands,  the  leaves  of  the 
rose  which  I  had  plucked  that  day  from 
the  basin  of  the  fountain  in  the  garden. 
That  was  the  last  glimpse  that  I  had  of 
my  mother.  .  .  .  Later  you  came  to 
waken  me,  and  asked  me  if  I  had  seen 
her,  and  when  and  how  she  had  left  me; 
and  you  were  very  excited.  But  I  fell 
asleep  again,  listening  to  tramping  of 
people  passing  through  the  garden  as  if 


ACT   THIRD,   SCENE    I  1 73 

seeking  something.  And  in  the  morning, 
a  little  after  dawn,  you  came  again  to 
rouse  me;  you  wrapped  me  in  a  cloak  and 
carried  me  in  your  trembling  arms  to 
another  house,  where  you  spoke  in  a 
whisper,  where  everybody  spoke  in  whis- 
pers and  was  pale.  .  .  .  And  I  never  saw 
her  again.  .  .  .  And  then  when  we 
returned  to  our  garden,  you  always  kept 
me  away  from  the  fountain,  and  whenever 
you  were  there,  your  lips  moved  as  if  in 
prayer.   ... 

A  pause. 

Tell  me  the  truth!     Tell  me  the  truth! 
Why  did  she  wish  to  die? 

The  Nurse,  disconcerted. 
No,  no  .  .  .  you  are  mistaken,  you  are 
mistaken.  .   ,  . 

Anna. 
Shall  I  never  know? 


174  THE     DEAD     CITY 

The  Nurse. 
You  are  mistaken.  .  .      Ah,   thus  you 
always  seek  to  renew  your  sorrow! 

Anna,  caressing  her. 
Forgive    me!      Forgive    me!      I    have 
caused  you  pain  again! 

A  pause. 

Do  you  smell  the  myrtle?  Do  you 
notice  how  strong  it  is? 

Slie  gets  up  a}id,  turning 
toward  the  open  loggia,  ifihales  the 
perfume  and  holds  out  her  hands. 

The  wind  has  risen,  it  seems  to  tinkle 
through  my  fingers  like  a  crystal.  Is  the 
door  of  my  room  open? 

The  Nurse. 
It  is. 

Anna. 

All  the  windows  are  open? 


act  third,  scene  i  1 75 

The  Nurse. 
All. 

Anna. 
The  wind  passes  like  a  perfumed  river! 
Where  may  Bianca  Maria  be? 

The  Nurse. 
Perhaps  in  her  room.     Do  you  wish  me 
to  call  her? 

Anna. 
No,  no.  .  .  .  Let  her  rest,  the  poor 
thing!  She  nearly  fainted  at  the  fountain 
from  the  strong  odor  of  the  myrtle.  I  felt 
her  stagger  while  we  were  returning.  More 
than  once  I  had  to  support  her.  .  .  .  See 
how  sure  I  am  of  myself,  nurse!  I  led 
her  instead  of  her  leading  me.  I  think  I 
could  go  down  and  come  up  again 
alone.  . 

The  Nurse. 
But  why  do  you  speak  so  much  of  that 
fountain? 


176  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Anna. 
We  are  all  attracted  toward  it  as 
toward  a  source  of  life.  Is  it  not  the 
only  living  thing  in  this  place  where 
everything  is  dead  and  burnt?  It  alone 
quenches  our  thirst;  and  all  the  thirst 
that  is  in  us  turns  greedily  toward  its 
freshness.  If  it  were  not,  no  one  could 
live  here;  we  should  all  die  of  thirst. 

The  Nurse. 
But  why  did  we  come  to  this  accursed 
place?    The  summer  has  burst  in  upon  us 
suddenly,  like  an  inferno.     We  must  flee. 
When  shall  we  go? 

Anna. 
Soon,  v^ery  soon,  nurse. 

The  Nurse. 
Truly,  it  is  a  place  cursed  by  God.    The 
chastisement    of    Heaven    is    upon    this 
land.     Every  day   processions  ascend  to 


ACT    THIRD,   SCENE    I  1 77 

the  chapel  of  the  prophet  Elijah,  every 
day.  To-night  the  country  is  filled  with 
fires.  But  not  a  drop  of  rain  falls.  If 
you  could  see  the  bed  of  the  river!  The 
pebbles  are  as  dry  and  bleached  as  the 
bones  of  the  dead. 

Anna. 
The  Inachus!     The  other  day  Alessan- 
dro  crossed  it  .  .  .  that  great  day  of  the 
golden  treasure.  .  .  . 

Feeling  her  way,  she  seats  her- 
self upon  the  highest  step. 

Shall  I  tell  you  the  fable  of  the  river, 
nurse?  Listen!  Once  upon  a  time  there 
was  a  king  called  Inachus,  the  king  of 
the  river;  and  this  king  had  a  daughter 
called  lo,  so  beautiful,  so  beautiful  that 
another  king,  omnipotent,  the  king  of  the 
world,  fell  in  love  with  her  and  desired 
her.     But  his  jealous  wife  changed  the 


1 78  THE     DEAD    CITY 

maiden  into  a  heifer  as  white  as  snow, 
and  put  her  in  charge  of  a  shepherd  who 
was  called  Argus,  and  had  a  hundred  eyes. 
This  terrible  shepherd  pastured  the  white 
heifer  down  there,  near  the  sea,  in  the 
meadows  of  Lerna;  and  day  and  night  he 
spied  incessantly  upon  her  with  his 
hundred  eyes.  Then  the  king  of  the 
world,  bent  upon  liberating  the  maiden, 
sent  the  prince  Hermes  to  kill  the  cruel 
custodian;  and  prince  Hermes,  having 
reached  the  plain,  began  to  play  his  flute 
so  sweetly  that  Argus  fell  asleep;  and  in 
his  sleep,  with  his  sword,  he  cut  off  the 
big  head  with  its  hundred  eyes.  But  the 
jealous  wife  sent  a  gadfly,  that  stung  the 
side  of  the  heifer  like  a  point  of  fire  and 
made  her  frantic  with  pain.  With  the 
gadfly  in  her  side,  the  frantic  lo  began  to 
run  over  the  sands  of  the  sea;  and  she 
ran,  and  ran,  and  ran  over  all  the  earth, 
through  rivers  and  straits,  and  over  the 


ACT    THIRD,   SCENE    I  I  79 

mountains,  always  with  the  gadfly  in  her 
side,  crazed  with  pain  and  terror,  con- 
sumed with  thirst  and  hunger,  sinking 
with  weariness,  foaming  at  the  mouth, 
panting,  lowing  pitifully,  without  pause, 
without  rest.  ...  At  last,  in  a  far  distant 
land  beyond  the  sea,  the  king  who  loved 
her  appeared,  and  with  a  single  gesture, 
barely  touching  her,  calmed  her,  and 
restored  her  to  human  form,  and  she  gave 
birth  to  a  black  child.  And  from  this 
black  child,  after  five  generations 
descended  the  Danaides,  the  fifty 
Danaides.  .  .  . 

She  leaiis  over  toward  The 
Nurse,  ivhose  head  has  sunk 
upon  her  breast  in  slumber. 

Are  you  asleep,  nurse? 

The  Nurse,  shaking  herself. 
No,  no.   ...   I  am  listening 


l8o  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Anna. 
You  are  sleepy,  poor  nurse.  At  one 
time  it  was  you,  who  told  me  stories  to 
make  me  sleep.  .  .  .  Go,  go  and  rest 
yourself,  nurse.  I  will  call  you.  I  am 
expecting  Alessandro. 

The  Nurse. 
No,    I   am    not   sleepy.  .      .  But  your 
voice  is  so  sweet.  .  .  . 

Anna. 
Is  Alessandro  in  his  room? 

The  Nurse. 
He  is. 

Anna. 
I    heard    him    close    his    door.  ...  I 
heard  the  key  turn. 

The  Nurse. 
Do  )'ou  wish  me  to  call  him? 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE    I  l8l 

Anna, 
No,  no!  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  desires  to  be 
alone;  he  may  be  working.  .  .  . 

Listeni?ig. 
Some  one  is  coming  up  the  stairs. 

The  Nurse   rises   and   goes 
toward  the  first  door  on  the  right. 


iSa  THE    DEAD     CITY 


SCENE   II 

E7itcr  Leonardo,  hesitating.  He  appears 
less  oppressed  by  his  trouble.  He  is  dejected 
but  somcivhai  resigned;  he  has  been  weeping. 

Leonardo,  approaching  the  blind  wo?nan 
humbly. 
You   are  here,    Anna.    .    .    .    You    are 
alone.  .  .  . 

Anna,  rising  and  holding  out  her  hands. 

I  was  waiting  for  some  one  to  come. 
Alessandro  is  still  in  his  room,  and  Bianca 
Maria  ...  I  think  is  resting.  .  .  .  She 
came  near  fainting  down  there  at  the 
fountain,  overcome  by  the  strong  frag- 
rance of  the  myrtle.  .  .  . 

Turning  to  The  Nurse. 

Go,  nurse.     I  will  call  you. 

The  Nurse  goes  out  through 
the  second  door  to  the  left. 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE    II  183 

Leonardo. 
Ah,  she  nearly  fainted.  .  .  . 

Anna. 
A  dizziness.  .  .  .  She  plunged  her 
hands  into  the  water  to  recover  herself. 
I  brought  her  back.  .  .  .  How  well  I  can 
find  my  way!  I  believe  I  could  go  down 
alone  and  come  up  alone.  .  .  . 

Leonardo. 
You  could  not  lose  your  way.  .  .  , 

Anna. 
Not  on  that  path. 

Leonardo. 
Will  you  be  seated,  Anna? 

Anna. 

No,  I  should  like  to  step  out  on  the 
loggia.     The  night  must  be  marvelous. 

Leonardo  guides  her  tip  the 
steps.     Both  stop  between  the  col- 


184  THE     DRAD     CITY 

umm.  Anna  lea7is  against  a 
colum}i,  her  face  turned  toivard 
tlie  sky. 

Leonardo. 
It  is  marvelous;  and  so  clear  that  one 
can  distinguish  all  the  stones  in  the  walls 
of  the  Dead  City. 

Anna. 
You  call  it  dead,  the  city  of  the  golden 
treasure!  It  seems  to  me  that  for  you,  it 
ought  to  be  living  with  a  life  incredible. 
I  should  think  that  you  would  see  forever 
what  you  alone  have  seen. 

Leonardo. 
Ah,  it  is  dead,  dead  indeed.  ...  It 
has  given  me  all  that  it  could  give. 
To-day  it  is  no  more  than  a  desecrated 
cemetery.  The  five  sepulchres  are 
nothing  but  five  empty  and  shapeless 
mouths. 


act  third,  scene  ii  1 85 

Anna. 
They  must  be  hungry  again.  .  .  . 

A  pause. 
Are  you  looking  at  the  stars? 

Leonardo. 
They  never  shone  more  brightly;  their 
scintillation  is  so  rapid  and  so  strong  that 
they  seem  near  to  us.  The  Big  Dipper 
almost  frightens  me.  It  flames  as  if  it 
had  entered*  the  terrestrial  atmosphere. 
The  Milky  Way  seems  to  wave  in  the 
wind  like  a  long  veil. 

Anna. 
Ah,  at  last  you  recognize  the  beauty  of 
the  sky!    Alessandro  said  that,  fascinated 
by  the  sepulchres,  you  had  forgotten  the 
beauty  of  the  heavens. 

Leonardo. 
To  look  at  the  stars,  the  eyes  must  be 
pure 


l86  THE     DEAD    CITY 

Anna. 
Did    not    Bianca    Maria   give   you  the 
ointment  for  your  suffering  eyes,  which 
she  promised  you? 

Leonardo,  with  a  changed  voice. 
Yes,   indeed,  my  eyes  are  beginning  to 
improve.  ... 

Anna,  sweetly^  trying  to  get  nearer  to  his  soul. 
You  have   some    grudge   against   your 
sister,  Leonardo.  .  .  . 

Leonardo,  trembling. 
I? 

Anna. 
More  than  once,  Leonardo,  more  than 
once  I   have  noticed  your  excited  state 
when  she  was  present,  or  when  some  one 
spoke  of  her.   .  .  . 

Leonardo,  trembling. 
You  have  noticed.   .  .  . 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE    H  1S7 

Anna. 
Have  you  no  confidence  in  me?  Do 
you  not  think  that  my  soul  is  fitted  for 
the  truth?  Do  you  not  believe  that  I  am 
partly  of  the  life  beyond?  Beyond  the 
beautiful  and  cruel  life  which  the  light  of 
day  illuminates? 

Leonardo. 
Of  what  truth  do  you  speak,  Anna?    Of 
what  truth? 

Anna. 
Of  the  truth  that  I  know,  that  no  one 
can  hide,  that  no  one  can  change,  that  no 
one  can  change. 

A  pause.  Leonardo,  shocked 
and  perplexed,  looks  at  her  fixedly, 
his  back  against  the  other  column. 

I  see  that  you  are  excited,  full  of  anxi- 
ety and  fear.  .  .  .  L  know  you  are  suffer- 
ing.    And  you  are  not   suffering  alone, 


lS8  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Leonardo,  we  all  suffer;  and  each  of  us 
tries  to  hide  it  from  the  others;  and  each 
is  conscious  of  committing  an  offense 
against  the  others,  and  against  himself, 
because  he  feels  that  his  faith  is  shaken; 
and  we  live  without  courage,  doubting 
and  humiliated,  while  truth  is  seated  in 
the  midst  of  us,  and  looks  at  us  with 
inflexible  eyes.   .  .  . 

Leonardo. 
I  do  not  understand  you. 

Anna. 
Oh,  do  not  try  to  spare  me!  If  you 
recognize  any  nobility  in  my  soul,  if  it 
seems  to  you  that  I  have  been,  so  many 
years,  a  neither  unworthy  nor  useless  com- 
panion of  the  man  whom  you  love  and 
admire  above  all  others,  if  you  think  that 
I  am  not  undeserving  of  the  fraternal 
kindness  that  you  have  shown  me  at  all 
times,  Leonardo,  do  not  try  to  spare  me; 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE   II  1 89 

do  not  show  for  me  the  pity  which  you 
would  have  for  a  poor  and  weak  creature, 
afraid  of  pain!  The  air  of  the  night 
alone  passes  between  us.  This  is  the 
moment  for  us  to  speak  out  all  that  is 
most  serious  and  strongest  within  us. 
Any  delay  will  be  a  weakness,  a  peril 
perhaps.   .    .  . 

Leonardo,  surprised  and  trembling, 
I    am    amazed,   .  .   .  Your   words  were 
unexpected.  ..  . 

Anna. 
I  have  felt  for  a  long  time  that  you 
were  suffering;  for  too  long  a  time  have 
I  felt  in  my  darkness.  ...  I  cannot 
express  it,  I  cannot  express  it.  ...  I 
feel  as  if  a  web  of  secret  things  were 
being  woven  in  silence  ...  an  impal- 
pable web,  which,  however,  at  times  holds 
me  like  a  snare.  .  .  .  Ah,  I  cannot  live 
so.     I  cannot  continue  to  live  so;  I  can 


IQO  THE     DEAD     CITY 

live  no  longer  if  not  in  truth,  for  the 
light  of  my  eyes  has  gone  out.  Well,  then, 
let  us  tell  the  truth.  I,  I  alone  am  the 
cause  of  this  misery.  I  no  longer  belong 
to  this  beautiful  and  cruel  world.  I  am  an 
impediment,  an  inert  obstacle  against 
which  so  much  hope  and  so  much  strength 
hurl  themselves  and  break  into  fragments. 
.  .  .  What  crime  is  it  then,  if  that  dear 
creature  obeys,  trembling  and  weeping, 
the  fate  that  ensnares  her?  W^hy  should 
you  deprive  her  of  your  tenderness,  when 
everything  that  is  human  in  her  yields  to 
the  greatest  of  human  needs?  Something 
was  slumbering  in  her  which  now  has  sud- 
denly awakened,  and  she  herself  is  fright- 
ened by  the  power  of  that  awakening,  she 
herself  trembles  at  it  and  weeps.  .  .  . 
Ah,  I  know,  I  know  how  ardent  the  desire 
to  live  is  in  her  blood!  I  have  held  it  in 
my  hands,  I  have  felt  it  beat  between  my 
fingers  like  a  wild  lark  fresh  and  fragrant 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE   II  191 

with  the  naorning  air  it  drank  in.  All  her 
face,  encircled  by  her  hair,  beat  like  a 
violent  pulse.  I  had  never  felt  such  a 
strong  pulse.  The  vital  power  that  is  in 
her  is  incredible.  She  herself  is  afraid  of 
it,  as  of  some  unknown  evil,  as  of  a 
frenzy  going  to  overwhelm  her.  At  times 
she  believes  that  she  has  smothered  it 
under  the  weight  of  her  anguish,  but  sud- 
denly it  again  overwhelms  her,  and  a  new 
voice  comes  to  her  lips  and  she  speaks  as 
if  inspired.  ...  A  while  ago,  before  you 
entered,  standing  by  the  ashes  and  the 
golden  treasure,  she  told  me  about  a 
wounded  falcon,  and  the  rushing  of  a 
thousand  wings  was  in  her  new  voice. 

A  patise.  Leonardo  listens 
ijitently  without  stirrings  as  if 
petrified. 

What  is  her  crime  if  she  loves?  Do 
you  not  think,  Leonardo,  do  you  not  think 
that  her  youth  has  already  been  sacrificed 


192  THE     DEAD     CITY 

at  your  side  too  long?  Can  your  brotherly 
love  ask  the  sacrifice  of  her  entire  life? 
She  felt  as  if  she  were  dying  that  morn- 
ing, when  she  read  the  lamentation  of 
Antigone.  ...  It  is  not  possible  that  all 
her  vitality  should  be  consumed  in  sacri- 
fice. She  needs  pleasure.  She  was  made 
to  give  and  to  receive  pleasure.  Would 
you,  Leonardo,  would  you  have  her 
renounce  her  legitimate  share  of  joy? 

A  pause.     Her  courage  seems 
to  sink. 


And  he. 


Her    voice    dies  on  her  lips. 
Leonardo  shows  extreme  agony. 


.  .  .  How  could  he  fail  to  love  her? 
He  must  indeed  recognize  in  her  the 
living  embodiment  of  his  loftiest  dream: 
the  goddess  of  Victory  that  is  to  crown 
his  life.  What  am  I  to  him,  but  a  heavy 
chain,  an  unbearable  burden?     You  know 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE   II  193 

what  a  profound  aversion  he  has  to  all 
inert  grief,  to  all  useless  pain,  to  any  pro- 
hibition, to  any  obstacle  that  may  hinder 
the  upward  flight  of  noble  forces  toward 
their  highest  development.  You  know 
with  what  assiduous  vigilance  he  looks 
about  him,  and  absorbs  all  that  may 
increase  and  accelerate  the  active  force 
of  his  spirit,  to  fit  him  for  the  works  of 
beauty  that  he  is  to  accomplish.  .  .  .  Ah, 
what  am  I,  of  what  value  is  a  poor,  half 
dead  husk,  as  compared  with  the  infinite 
world  of  poetry  that  he  carries  within 
him,  and  which,  some  day,  he  will  re- 
veal to  humanity?  What  is  my  solitary 
sadness,  compared  to  the  infinite  grief, 
which  he  can  alleviate  with  the  revelation 
of  his  pure  art?  I  am  only  half  alive. 
.  .  .  I  have  already  one  foot  in  the 
shadow.  I  need  to  take  one  step  only, 
one  little  step  to  disappear.  .  .  oh,  a  very 
little  step!    I  know,  I  know  all  that  gathers 


194  THE    DEAD    CITY 

and  twines  around  this,  my  remnant  of 
life,  to  render  it  more  binding,  the  legiti- 
mate tie,  custom,  prejudice,  pity  and 
remorse.  .  .  . I  remember  a  stone  column, 
corroded  and  broken,  on  the  shore  of  a 
former  port,  filled  with  sand,  where  the 
skeleton  of  a  ship  showed  above  the 
water;  I  remember  the  useless  wreck, 
around  which  one  could  still  see  the 
knots  of  the  worn  out  cables,  and  rem- 
nants of  the  old  anchors.  ...  It  was  the 
saddest  sight  to  be  found;  and  the  open 
sea,  looked  upon  from  that  point  of  view, 
was  a  promise  unspeakably  alluring. 

A  pause.  She  inclines  her  head 
tipon  her  breast  for  a  mofnent,  gath- 
ering strength.  Then  she  shakes 
herself  and  holds  her  hands  out  to 
Leonardo,  luhom  excess  of  emo- 
tion prevents  from  speaking. 

I  lose  what  I  love  and  save  what  I  can! 
Put  your  hands  in  mine,  Leonardo. 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE    II  I95 

Leonardo  moves  toward  her, 
^t^gS^^i^^S'<  ^fid  joins  hatids.  She 
shivers  at  the  contact. 

They  are  colder  than  mine;  they 
arc  icy. 

They  descend  the  steps. 

Leonardo,  in  a  zveak  and  broke?i  voice. 

Forgive  me,  Anna,  if  I  do  not  know 
how  to  answer  you.  .  .  .  I  will  speak  to 
you  to-morrow.  .  ,  .  Promise  me  that 
you  will  wait  for  me,  that  you  will  hear 
me,  ...  I  do  not  know,  I  cannot  now. 
.  .  .  You  understand  me,  Anna.  .  .  . 
Promise  me  that  you  will  hear  me  to-mor- 
row. ... 

Anna,  with  a  sigh. 
What  could  you  tell  me?  Alas,  are  not 
my  words  already  too  many?  Have  I  not 
said  already  what  had  better  remained 
unsaid?  Ah,  life  eludes  us  always,  and 
drags  us  along  when  we  wish  to  fly  from  it. 


196  THE     DEAD    CITY 

Leonardo,  with  a  last  outburst  of  hope. 

Are  you  certain,  are  you?  Are  you  cer- 
tain that  he  loves  her,  that  she  loves  him? 
.  .  .  You  are  certain,  Anna,  of  their  love? 
.  .  .  You  do  not  deceive  yourself,  do  you? 
It  is  not  a  doubt,  a  suspicion?  .  .  .  You 
are  sure  .  .  .  sure  .  .  . 

Anna,  struck  by  his  tone. 

And  you?  And  you?  Are  you  not 
certain? 

A  pause.    Leonardo  hesitates 
to  reply. 

Why  are  you  silent?     Oh,  still  pity  for 

me? 

Leonardo,  softly,  anxiously  ^vatching  the 
first  door  to  the  left,  as  if  afraid  of  some 
surprise. 

Alessandro,  .  .  .  Alessandro  is  there. 
.  .  .  You  will  see  him,  .  .  .  Will  you  tell 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE    II  197 

him  that  you  spoke  to  me  .  .  .  that  you 
told  me  all  this? 

Anna. 
No,  no.  .  .  .  Forgive  me,  Leonardo, 
forgive  me!  .  .  .  To  you,  too,  to  you, 
too,  I  ought  to  have  been  silent.  .  .  . 
Silence,  ah  how  difficult  silence  is,  even 
for  those  who  have  renounced  life. 

Leonardo. 

I  shall  see  you  again,  to-morrow,  I  shall 

speak  to   you,    to-morrow.   .  .   .   Promise 

me.  ...   I  shall  find  you  here  to-morrow 

at  the  same  hour,  shall  I?   Thanks,  Anna. 

He  kisses  her  hands. 

Thanks!     Good-bye. 

He  turtts  iozvard  the  second 
door  at  the  right.  About  to  open 
it,  he  stops  in  the  act,  shaken  by 
an  U7icontrollable  trembling,  he 
goes  to  Hie  door  by  which  lie 
entered  and  disappears  down  the 
stairs^  as  iti  flight. 


198  THE    DEAD     CITY 

Anna,   listenwg,  makes  a  few  steps  in  the 
direction  of  the  noise  of  the  fleeing  feet. 

Leonardo!  .    .    .    He  is  going  down  the 
stairs.  .  .  .  Leonardo!     Leonardo! 

She  stops,  breathless. 

My  God,  my  God!  How  he   trembled 
before  that  door! 


ACT    THIRD,   SCENE   III  I99 


SCENE      III 

BiANCA    Maria    enters    through    her   door, 
frightened. 
Did  you  call  Leonardo?   What  has  hap- 
pened?     Where     is    Leonardo?      Speak, 
Anna!     Where  is  he? 

Anna. 
Do  not  be  afraid.  .  .  .  He  was  here,  a 
little  while  ago;  he  was  here,  talking  with 
me,  on  the  loggia.  .  .  .  And  he  went 
away,  I  don't  know  why.  ...  I  don't 
know  where  he  went.  ...  I  called  to 
him  because  all  at  once  I  felt  the  desire 
to  go  out  with  him.  .  .  .  The  night  is  so 
beautiful.     But  he  did  not  hear  me. 

BiANCA  Maria. 
I  was  afraid. 

Anna. 
Do  not  be  afraid,  Bianca  Maria. 


200  THE     DEAD     CITY 


BiANCA  Maria 
I  was  alone  in  the  room  of  the  treas- 
ures, placing  the  jewels  around  Cassandra, 
so  that  when  he  returned  he  would  find 
everything  done.  ...  I  was  not  very 
tranquil,  however.  I  had  from  time  to 
time  a  slight  shiver.  ...  If  you  could 
have  seen,  in  the  night,  by  the  light  of 
the  lamp,  those  golden  masks!  .  .  .  They 
took  on  a  strangely  life-like  aspect.  .  .  . 
A  sudden  gust  of  wind  put  out  the  lamp 
and  I  found  myself  in  darkness;  and  at 
that  moment  I  heard  you  calling  Leo- 
nardo. ...   I  was  afraid.  .  .  . 

Anna 

You  child! 

BiANCA  Maria,  clinging  to  Anna  with  a  sud- 
den ?notion. 
There  is  a  fear,  a  constant  terror  in  my 
heart,   Anna,   that   I  do  not  understand. 
.  .  .   I  should  like  to  flee;  a  mad  impulse 


ACT    THIRD,   SCENE    III 


to  flee  seizes  me,  I  don't  know  where,  I 
don't  know  where.  .  .  .  But  tell  me,  you 
tell  me,  Anna,  what  I  shall  do!  Help 
me,  you  who  are  all  kindness  and  all 
strength,  who  know  how  to  forgive  and 
how  to  defend!  I  plaqe  my  whole  soul  in 
your  hands.  I  place  my  life  in  your 
hands,  that  are  saintly,  that  are  the  truth, 
that  have  been  bathed  in  my  tears.  .  .  . 
Tell  me  what  I  must  do! 

Anna,  gently  caressing  her. 
Be  calm,  be  calm.  .  .  Do  not  be 
afraid!  Fear  nothing!  No  one  will  hurt 
you,  poor  soul!  I  am  here,  and  I  will 
save  you.  Have  faith,  have  faith!  Wait 
a  little  longer! 

BiANCA  Maria,  ivith  growing  excitement. 
Anna,  Anna,  I  do  not  wish  to  leave  you 
again;  I  would  not  like  to  be  away  from 
you  any  more!  I  would  like  to  flee  with 
you,  go  far  away  with  you,  and  be  always 


THE     DEAD     CITY 


at  your  side,  at  your  feet,  your  faithful 
slave,  obeying  your  every  wish,  watching 
over  you  as  one  guards  a  holy  image, 
praying  for  you,  dying  for  you,  as  your 
nurse,  as  your  nurse.  ...  I  feel  perfect 
devotion  for  you  in  my  soul!  No  pain, 
no  pain  would  seem  too  heavy  to  bear  in 
serving  you  in  your  sorrow.  If  with  all 
my  blood  I  could  spare  you  these  days  of 
anguish  and  of  torment;  if  at  the  price  of 
a  horrible  death,  I  could  destroy  every 
trace  of  these  things, — Anna,  Anna, 
believe  me! — I  should  not  hesitate,  I 
should  not  hesitate. 

Anna. 

Ah,  dear  one,  all  your  blood  and  all 
your  tears  could  not  revive  a  single  smile. 
All  the  bounty  of  spring  could  not  make 
a  plant  blossom  again  the  root  of  which 
is  injured.  Therefore,  do  not  torment 
yourself,  Bianca  Maria,  do  not  complain 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE    III  203 

of  things  that  are  already  accomplished, 
that  already  belong  to  the  past.  I  have 
placed  my  days  and  my  dreams  outside 
my  own  soul  .  .  .  the  days  that  have 
passed,  the  dreams  that  have  vanished! 
I  wish  no  one  to  feel  compassion  for 
me, — no  one  to  attempt  to  console  me. 
I  should  like  to  find  a  peaceful  road  for 
my  unsteady  footsteps,  some  place  where 
dreams  and  pain  would  mingle,  where 
there  would  be  neither  noise  nor  curios- 
ity, and  no  one  to  see  or  to  hear.  And  I 
should  want  never  to  speak  again, 
because  in  certain  hours  of  life  no  one 
knows  which  words  it  is  better  to  say, 
and  which  it  is  better  to  keep  to  one's 
self  And,  I  should  like,  Bianca  Maria, 
I  should  like  you  to  have  faith  in  me,  as 
in  an  older  sister,  who  put  herself  out  of 
the  way  quietly,  because  she  understood 
all,  and  forgave  all  .  .  .  quietly  .  .  . 
quietly   .    .    .    not  far   .    .    .    not  too  far. 


204  THE     DEAD     CITY 

.  .  .  Come,  come!  You  promised  to  read 
to  me,  a  while  ago;  you  remember? 
Find  the  book  and  let  me  sit  down! 

BiANCA   Maria  leads  her  to  a  chair,  kneels 
before  her^  and  takes  her  hands. 

Listen,  Anna,  listen.  Nothing  is  lost, 
nothing  is  irreparable.  It  would  be  impos- 
sible to  utter  more  desperate  words  with 
a  sweeter  voice  than  you  have  uttered. 
.  .  .  Ah,  do  you  think  I  do  not  under- 
stand you?  Well  then,  nothing,  nothing 
is- lost;  nothing  irreparable  has  happened. 
...  I  do  not  know  what  sudden  fear 
drove  me  into  your  arms;  I  cried  to  you 
to  save  me,  to  defend  me  .  .  .  but  against 
a  peril  that  I  am  ignorant  of,  against  some 
obscure  danger  hanging  over  me  without 
my  being  able  to  see  it,  to  recognize  it. 
.  .  .  I  am  weak;  childless  terrors  can  still 
seize  upon  my  mind  of  a  sudden  and 
unsettle  it.  .  .  .  Listen,  Anna,  this  is  the 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE    III  205 

truth.  Who  could  lie  before  your  face? 
.  .  .  When  you  entered  there  in  the  room 
of  the  golden  treasure,  and  kissed  me  on 
the  lips,  you  felt  that  my  lips  were  pure. 
.  .  .  They  were  pure  then,  they  are  pure 
now.  By  the  memory  of  my  mother,  by 
the  head  of  my  brother,  I  swear  to  you, 
Anna,  that  they  will  remain  pure,  thus 
sealed  by  your  own  hands. 

She  presses  upon  her  mouth  the 
hands  of  the  blind  woman. 

Anna. 
Do  not  swear,  do  not  swear!  You 
are  sinning  against  life;  it  is  as  if  you 
were  to  cut  down  all  the  roses  of  the 
earth,  only  to  withhold  them  from 
those  that  desire  them.  What  does  it 
avail?  What  does  it  avail?  Can  you  per- 
haps cut  down  the  desire?  I  felt  that 
your  lips  were  pure,  pure  as  the  fire;  but 
a  few  moments  before  1  had  also  felt  two 


2o6  THE     DEAD     CITY 

lives  reaching  out  one  for  the  other  with 
all  their  strength,  and  looking  fixedly 
across  my  immutable  misery,  as  through  a 
crystal  that  was  about  to  break. 

BiANXA  Maria. 
My   God,    my  God!     You   are    closing 
every  door  around.  .  .  . 

Anna. 
One  remains  open! 

Bianca  Maria,  zvith  a  clear  and  firm  into- 
nation. 

I  will  go  through  that. 
Anna. 
It  is  your  door,  yours;  the  door  of  the 
future.     Have   faith!     Wait   just   a  little 

longer! 

A  pause.  Bianca  Maria  bends 
her  head  down  in  gloomy  thought. 

Do  you  smell  the  fragrance  of  the 
myrtle?  It  is  as  intoxicating  as  heated 
wine:  in  the  freshness  of  the  night  wind 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE    III  207 

it  preserves  all  its  warmth.  Do  you  smell 
it?  To  me,  too,  it  gave  a  dizzy  spell 
once.  ...  It  was  in  the  time  of  great 
joy,  so  very  long  ago!  We  were  going  to 
Megara,  along  the  gulf  of  ^gina.  You 
know  that  shore?  It  was  then  as  white 
as  salt,  dotted  with  myrtles  and  with  little 
storm-twisted  pine  trees  that  were  mirrored 
in  the  calm  water.  To  my  ecstatic  eyes, 
the  myrtle  seemed  a  fire,  burning  with  a 
green  flame,  and  the  sea  was  as  immacu- 
late and  fresh  as  the  corolla  of  a  flower 
just,  just  opening.   .   .   . 

BiANCA  Maria,  raising  her  head  slowly. 

What  a  sound  your  voice  has,  Anna! 
It  is  so  soft,  it  goes  to  the  bottom  of  my 
soul,  like  a  melody.  When  you  speak  of 
beautiful  things,  there  seems  to  rise  to 
your  lips  the  echo  of  I  do  not  know  what 
song.  Speak  to  me  again  of  beautiful 
things,  Anna! 


«o8  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Anna 
You  tell  me  of  your  dream,  Bianca 
Maria.  For  what  country  would  you  like 
to  set  out?  For  Syracuse?  .  .  .  When  we 
came  here,  we  thought  of  spending  the 
spring  at  Zante  Alessandro  wished  to 
take  Leonardo  to  Zante,  for  a  rest.  I  do 
not  know  the  island;  but  one  night,  during 
my  first  voyage,  I  saw  it  from  a  distance 
and  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  Island  of 
the  Blessed.  It  was  near  Myrtia.  .  . 
Myrtia,  sweet  name!  It  ought  to  be  your 
name!  ...  It  was  the  hour  of  sunset.  I 
remember:  all  around,  all  around  were 
grand,  holy-looking  hills,  covered  with 
vineyards,  so  dense  that  they  vied  with 
the  even  verdure  of  a  meadow,  but  with 
something  listless  about  them,  as  the  heat 
of  the  day  had  wilted  the  tender  shoots; 
and  here  and  there  between  the  drooping 
vines  a  mournful  row  of  black  cypress 
trees.     The  round  moon,  thin  like  one's 


ACT    THIRD,   SCENE    III  209 

breath  upon  a  mirror,  was  gliding  over 
the  pallid  sky,  between  the  tops  of  the 
black  cypresses.  Through  a  depression 
in  the  ground  one  saw,  far  away  in  the 
sea,  the  divine  form  of  Zante  chiseled 
in  a  mass  of  sapphire,  by  the  most 
delicate  of  sculptors,  upon  a  rosy  zone. 
.  .  .  Thus  I  see  it  still!  There  we  ought 
to  have  spent  the  spring,  I  believe  there 
you  would  have  found  your  oranges  to 
bite  like  bread.  ...  I  am  thirsty. 

BiANCA  Maria. 
You  are  thirsty?    What  do  you  wish  to 
drink? 

Anna. 

A  little  water. 

Bianca  Maria,  rises,  goes  to  the  table^  aftd 
pours  water  into  a  glass. 

Here  is  the  water 


2IO  THE     DEAD    CITY 

Anna,  after  drinking. 
It  is  almost  tepid.  ...  I  have  always 
longingly  pictured  to  myself  the  delight 
of  drinking  at  the  spring  with  my  mouth 
in  the  water,  as  the  animals  drink.  .  .  , 
One  day  I  heard  Alessandro  drinking  that 
way  in  long  draughts,  and  I  envied  him. 
You  must  get  down  upon  the  ground, 
mustn't  you?  And  support  yourself  upon 
your  hands  .  .  the  whole  face  immersed 
up  to  your  forehead.  Is  that  it?  I  should 
like  to  try.  .  .  .   Have  you  ever  tried  it? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
I  always  drink  that  way  at  the  fountain. 
It  is  most  delightful.  It  feels  as  if  the 
whole  face  were  drinking.  The  eyelids 
flutter  over  the  water  like  butterflies  that 
are  about  to  drown.  I  have  the  courage 
to  keep  my  eyes  open,  and  while  the 
water  enters  my  throat,  I  discover  at  its 
bottom   some   hidden  marvel.     I  cannot 


ACT    THIRD,    SCENE    III  2  11 

tell  you  what  strange  figures  are  formed 
by  the  disposition  of  the  gravel.  .  .  . 

Anna. 

Your  voice,  now,  is  as  fresh  as  a  spring. 
I  really  hear  the  water  run  over  your 
body,  as  over  the  statue  of  a  fountain.  .  . . 

A  pause. 

Do  you  not  think,  Bianca  Maria,  tha' 
the  statues  at  the  fountains  must  be 
happy?  Through  their  immovable  and 
lasting  beauty  circulates  an  animated  life 
that  continually  renews  itself.  They 
enjoy  at  one  and  the  same  time  inertia 
and  fluidity.  In  solitary  gardens  they 
look  sometimes  as  if  they  were  in  exile, 
but  they  are  not,  because  their  liquid 
souls  never  cease  to  communicate  with 
the  distant  mountains,  whence  they  came, 
still  asleep  and  enclosed  in  blocks  of 
shapeless  marble.  They  listen  astounded 
to  the  words  which  arise  to  their  lips  out 


2  12  THE    DEAD     CITV 

of  the  depths  of  the  earth,  but  they  are 
not  deaf  to  the  conversations  of  the  poets 
and  sages,  who  like  to  rest,  as  in  a  calm 
retreat,  in  the  musical  shade,  where  the 
marble  immortalizes  classic  repose.  Do 
they  not  seem  happy  to  you?  I  should 
like  well  to  be  one  of  them,  because  I 
have  blindness  in  common  with  them. 

BiANCA  Maria, 
Oh,  Anna,  you  also  possess  in  common 
with  them  the  virtue  of  calming  anguish 
and  infusing  forgetfulness!  When  you 
speak  of  beautiful  things,  he  who  listens 
to  you  forgets  his  trouble,  and  believes 
that  he  can  still  live,  and  that  life  can 
still  be  sweet. 

Anna. 

Life  can  still  be  sweet.     Fear  nothing! 

Everything    passes    away,    all  is  naught. 

.  .  .    How    does,    how    does    Cassandra 

speak  of  the  things  human?     "No  matter 


ACT    THIRD,   SCENE  HI  213 

how  adverse  they  are,  a  sponge  soaked  in 
water  wipes  out  every  trace."  Why  do 
you  not  read  a  little?  You  promised 
me.  ... 

BiANCA  Maria. 
What  do  you  wish  me  to  read? 

Anna. 
That  dialogue  between  Cassandra  and 
the  chorus  of  the  elders. 

BiANCA  Maria  looks  on  the 
table  for  the  book  of  Aeschylus  as 
if  under  compulsion,  almost  with 
reluctance. 

Have  you  found  the  book? 

BiANCA  Maria,  opening  the  book  and  turning 
the  leaves. 

Yes,  here  it  is. 

Anna. 

Read  a  little. 


214  1'JE     DEAD     CITY 

BiANCA  Maria,  reading* 

' '  Chonis. 
"  Thy  fame  oracular  hath  reach'd  our  ear: 
"  But  certes  we  require  no  prophet  here. 

' '  Cassandra. 
"Ye    gods!     What    crime    is    hatching? 

[What  fell  blow, 
"  Mighty  and  strange?     Mischief  beneath 

[this  roof 
"  Is  plotted;  all  incurable  the  woe, 
"To    friends    unbearable!     Help    stands 

[aloof. 

'  *  Chorus. 
"  Dark  are  these  oracles.  .  .  . 

Anna,  interrupting. 
No,  it  is  enough.  Read  no  further!  It 
is  too  funereal.  Let  us  take  Antigone 
again,  at  the  place  where  you  ceased 
reading  the  other  morning.  Do  you 
remember?  It  was  the  passage  where 
Antigone  was  bending  under  her  grief  for 
the  first  time.     It  seemed  that  her  voice 


ACT    THIRD,   SCENE  III  215 

was  gilded  like  the  top  of  a  cypress  at 
sunset.  .  .  . 

BiANCA    Maria,   looking  for   the    book    of 
Sophocles. 

I  cannot  find  it. 

Anna. 
You  have;  not  seen  it  since  then? 

BiANCA  Maria, 
Ah,  here  it  is. 

She  opens  the  book,  looks  for  the 
page  and  reads. 

' '  Chorus. 
"So  then,  illustrious  and  lauded, 
"Thou    wanderest     toward     the    hidden 
[dwellings  of  the  dead; 
"  Not  consumed  by  devouring  diseases, 
"  Nor  as  the  allotted  spoil  of  war. 
"  But  free,  but  living,  alone, 
"  Of  all  the  mortals,  thou  descendest  to 

[Hades. 


2l6  THE     DEAD     CITY 

'  'Antigone. 
"I    heard    how   of    old   most   miserably 

[perished 
"The  Phrygian  stranger, 
"  The  daughter  of  Tantalus,  on  the  sum- 

[mit  of  Sipilos; 
"Whom  like  tenacious  ivy 
"The    stony  growth  enveloped;   neither 
[the  tears  she  sheds, — 
"  So  goes  the  story  among  men — 
"  Nor  the  snows  do  ever  cease; 
"  But  forever  do  her  weeping  eyes  bathe 

[those  crags. 
"  I  am  much  like  her,  for  a  god  brings  to 

[me  sleep.  .  .  . 

Anna,  interrupting. 
Ah,  the  statue  of  Niobe!  Before  dying, 
Antigone  sees  a  stone  statue  from  which 
pours  a  fountain  of  everlasting  tears.  .  .  . 
Enough,  Bianca  Maria.  Read  no  further. 
It  seems  as  if  death  were  everywhere. 
Close  the  book!  Go  out  upon  the  loggia 
and  look  at  the  stars.     I  am  tired,  very 


ACT    THIRD,   SCENE    III  2X7 

tired;  I  wish  that  some  god  would  bring 
me  sleep  also.  .  .  . 

She  rises  atid  calls. 
Nurse!     Nurse! 

A  pause.     No  one  a?iswers. 
Nurse!     She  does  not  hear   me!     Per- 
haps she  is  asleep.     She  too  is  so  tired, 
poor  old  woman!    I  do  not  like  to  awaken 
her.     What     is    sweeter    than    profound 

sleep! 

A  pause. 

The  stillness  of  this  night  is  incredible. 
The  wind  has  fallen, — there  is  not  a 
breath  of  air  stirring. 

She  raises  her  hands  up  in  the 

air. 

Perhaps  Alessandro  is  also  asleep.     Do 

you  think  so?     He  has  not  left  his  room 

again.     No  more  noise  has  come  from  his 

room.     He  has  closed  the  door. 

A  pause. 
V/hat  arc  you  going  to  do  nov,? 


ai8  THE    DEAD    CITY 

BiANCA  Maria,  vaguely,  frightcmd. 
I  will  wait  for  my  brother. 

Anna. 
Alone,  here? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Alone,  here. 

Anna. 
Where  can  Leonardo  be? 

BiANCA  Maria,  trembling. 
Where   can   he   be?    Why  has   he  not 
returned? 

A  pause. 
I  am  afraid 

Anna. 
Do  not  be  afraid.     The  night  is  sweet. 
He  will  return  soon. 

BiANCA  Maria. 
I  will  wait  for  him. 

Anna. 
Do  you  wish  me  to  remain  with  you? 


ACT    THIRD,  SCENE   III  219 

BiANCA  Maria. 
No,  no.  .  .  .  You  are  tired.     One  can 
see  by  your  face  that  you  are  too  weary. 

Anna. 
Will  you  lead  me  to  the  threshold, — 
only  as  far  as  the  threshold?     I  do  not 
wish  to  awaken  my  nurse.     I  can  easily 
find  my  room  by  myself. 

BiANCA  Maria  takes  her  hand  and  leads  her 
to  the  thresliold. 
But  everything  is  dark. 

Anna. 
For  me,  there  is  no  change. 

She  leans  forward  itito  the  dark 
shadow,  in  the  open  door. 
Do  you  hear  the  breathing  ot  my 
nurse?  It  is  not  tranquil.  It  is  a  little 
uneasy.  May  be  she  fell  asleep  in  an 
uncomfortable  position.  .  .  Poor  nurse! 
Dear,  dear  old  soul! 


I20  THE     DEAD     CITY 

She  listens  again  ^  then  embraces 
BiANCA  Maria, 

Thanks.  Good-night.  Let  me  kiss  your 
two  eyes.  Good-night!  Go  and  peace  be 
with  you.  Go  out  upon  the  loggia  and 
look  at  the  stars. 

She  disappears  in  the  darkness. 
BiANCA  Maria  folloivs  her  with 
her  gaze  for  some  ti?7tc ;  then, 
frightened,  glances  around  as  if 
seized  by  intolerable  anguish. 
She  takes  a  few  steps  toward  the 
loggia.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps 
she  again  looks  arowid  with 
frightened  eyes,  watching  the 
doors.  Then  she  ascends  slowly. 
When  she  has  arrived  at  the  last 
step,  she  staggers,  and  leans 
agaitist  a  column;  she  remains 
thus  for  some  time  looking  out  i?tto 
the  flight.  Suddenly  she  slips 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  column 
with  the  noiseless  lightness  of  a 
fallifig  veil,  and  thus  sunk  into 
herself  she  bursts  into  tears. 


ACT    FOURTH 


ACT  FOURTH 

The  same  room  as  in  the  first  act.     The 
large  loggia  is  open  in  the  twilight. 


aaj 


SCENE   I 

Leonardo  appears  on  the  loggia^  looking 
at  the  Dead  City,  over  which  falls  the  shadow 
of  eveni7ig.  His  ntatmer  is  that  of  a  man 
who  marshals  all  his  forces  in  an  extreme 
fisolution.  His  eyes  biirn  in  the  earthy  pal- 
lor of  his  face  as  if  inflammed  by  fever.  He 
speaks  and  moves  convtUsively,  as  if  in  a  sort 
of  lucid  delirium. 


%2^ 


ACT    FOURTH,    SCENE    I  22$ 


Leonardo. 

The  sepulchres.  .  .  .  She  might  fall 
into  one  of  them,  the  deepest  one.  .  .  . 
No,  no.  .  .  .  Even  if  she  should  remain 
alive,  she  might  suffer.  .  .  .  Ah  horrible, 
horrible! 

He  presses  his  temples  with  his 
hands,  with  a  gesture  of  horror 
and  madness.  He  descends  the 
steps,  into  the  room,  moves  about 
uncertain,  vacillating,  obeying  the 
fluctuatiofLS  of  his  morbid  fancy. 

It  is  necessary  then;,  it  is  necessary. 
...  It  is  necessary  that  she  be  no  more, 
that  she  be  no  more!  .  .  .  Ah,  if  she 
could  only  flee,  if  she  could  only  disap- 
pear, if  she  were  only  far  away,  if  her 
room  were  empty.   .  .  .  Empty!     It  will 


226  THE     DEAD     CITY 

be   empty,    it   shall   be   empty   to-night. 
.  .  .  Her  breath,  her  breath.  .  .  . 

He  drops  upon  a  chair ^  passes 
his  hands  over  his  face  as  if  to 
dispel  a  cloud,  as  if  to  see  more 
clearly. 

There  is  no  escape;  there  is  no  other 
way  out.  I  have  thought  of  everything 
— have  I?  Everything  has  been  well  con- 
sidered. He  loves  her.  .  .  .  And  she 
thinks  of  dying.  ...  It  is  the  indelible 
stain  upon  my  soul.  .  .  .  An  abyss  has 
suddenly  opened.  Everything  has  been 
broken,  everything  has  been  rent  asunder 
at  one  blow,  through  her,  through  her! 
She  is  there,  so  sweet,  so  sweet;  and 
through  her  all  this  evil.  .  .  .  None  of 
us  can  live  any  longer.  We  have  ceased 
to  understand  each  other.  The  abyss 
yawns  between  us,  who  were,  before,  one 


ACT    FOURTH,   SCENE   I  227 

single  life,  one  single  soul!  .  .  .  There  is 
no  escape;  there  is  no  other  way. 


A  pause.     He  rises,  spurred  by 
his  tormenting  thoughts. 


How  accomplish  it?  How  accomplish 
it?  She  will  be  here  in  a  little  while. 
.  .  .  Ah,  I  shall  see  her,  I  shall  speak  to 
her,  I  shall  hear  her  voice.  ...  If  at 
least  I  could  see  in  her  the  saintly  sister 
once  more  in  the  last  moment!  If,  look- 
ing at  her  for  the  last  time,  my  eyes  could 
become  pure  once  more!  If  I  could  clasp 
her  in  my  arms  once  more  without  this 
trembling  .  .  .  this  horrible  trembling! 
.  .  .  He  loves  her,  he  loves  her!  Since 
when?  How?  What  has  happened  between 
them?  .  .  .  Ah,  my  God,  my  God,  every- 
thing  in   me    is   infected,    everything   is 


228  THE     DEAD     CITY 

contaminated  .  .  .  and  this  thirst  which 
destroys  me! 

He  feels  of  his  burning  throat. 
He  looks  for  %vater,  approaches  the 
table,  fills  a  glass   and   drinks 
with  avidity.     He  trembles,  as  if 
struck  by  a  sudden  thought. 

Ah,  the  fountain! 

A  pause.  He  trembles,  leaning 
upoji  the  table  under  the  oppression 
of  the  7ieiv  thought,  with  his  eyes 
wide  open  and  starittg. 


ACT    FOURTH,   SCENE   II  229 


SCENE     II 

BiANCA  Maria  eiiters  from  the  second 
right  hand  door.  Her  manner  reveals  dis- 
couragement and  gloomy  weariness. 

Bianca  Maria. 
You  here,  Leonardo?     I  did  not  know 
that  you  had  returned.  .   .  . 

Leonardo,  controlVmg  his  excitement. 
Yes,  I  returned  a  short  time  ago.   .   .   . 
I  was  thinking  of  going  to  see  you,  but  I 
thought  .  .  .  you  were  asleep.  .  .   .  Were 
you? 

Bianca  Maria. 
No,  I  have  not  been  able  to  sleep. 

Leonardo, 
How  tired  you  must  be! 

Bianca  Maria.  ' 

And  you? 


230  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Leonardo. 
Oh,  I  am  accustomed  to  be  awake.  But 
you!  To  wait  for  me  until  dawn,  there, 
seated  upon  a  step!  Why  did  you  do 
that?  When  I  returned,  when  1  saw  you, 
your  face  looked  so  wan,  so  ashy.   .  .  . 

hi  his   voice  thrills  an   unex- 
pected tenderness. 

BiANCA  Maria. 
You  have  been  weeping! 

Leonardo. 
I  did  not  suspect  that  you  were  here, 
and    you    suddenly    rose    like    a    phan- 
tom. .  .  . 

BiANCA  Maria. 
I  am  always  like  a  phantom  to  you.     I 
frighten  you. 

Leonardo,  bewildered. 
No,  no.  .  .  . 


ACT    FOURTH,  SCENE    II  231 

BiANCA  Maria,  taking  his  hand. 
Why  did  you  run  away  last  night?     I 
know  that  you  ran  away.  .  .  . 

Leonardo. 
I,  run  away? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Anna     called     after    you,    and    in     a 
strangely  altered  voice. 

Leonardo. 
She  called  me?     I  did  not  hear.  .  .  . 

BiANCA  Maria. 
And  you  staid  out  all  night,  until  dawn! 

Leonardo. 
The  night  was  so  beautiful;  and  on 
my  way,  the  hours  passed  so  rapidly. 
The  night  of  the  solstice  is  short.  I 
wished  to  hear  the  song  of  the  larks  at 
dawn.  .  .  .  Still,  could  I  have  known  you 
were  waiting  for  me.  .  .  . 


232  THE    DEAD     CITY 

BiANCA  Maria. 
I  was  waiting  for  you,  weeping. 

Leonardo. 
Weeping? 

Bianca  Maria,  unable  to  contain  herself. 

Yes,  yes,  pouring  out  all  my  tears  for 
you,  for  you.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  that  I 
can  live  another  day  like  this?  Do  you 
think  it  possible  for  me  to  stand  this  tor- 
ture any  longer?  Tell  me  at  least  what  I 
shall  do.  Take  me  away,  take  me  away; 
or  arrange  for  us  to  be  here  alone.  . 
I  am  ready  to  obey  you  in  everything.  .  .  . 
I  wish  to  be  alone  with  you,  as  before, 
here  or  anywhere.  Anywhere  I  will  follow 
you  without  a  murmur.  But  quick!  But 
quick!  To-morrow!  If  you  are  not  will- 
ing, if  you  delay,  you  will  be  responsible 
for  all  that  may  happen.  .  .  .  Yours  will 
be  the  fault,  Leonardo.    Think  of  it  well! 


ACT    FOURTH,    SCENE    II  233 

Leonardo,    deadly  pale,    looking  into    her 
face,  hi  a  clioking  voice. 
Then  you  love  him?     Tell  me,  tell  me 
how  much  do  you  love  him?    Desperately? 

BiANCA  Maria,  covering  her  face. 
Oh!     Oh! 

Leonardo,  almost  beside  himself 
And  he.   .   .   .   Has  he  told  you  that  he 
loves    you?     When?     When    did    he    tell 
you?     Answer!     Do  you  believe  that  he 
cannot  be  cured  of  his  love  for  you? 

Bianca  Maria,  still  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands. 
Oh!     Oh!     What  a  question  to  ask  of 
me! 

Leonardo  is  about  to  speak  again,  but  re- 
strains himself      He   moves  away    with 
irresolute  steps,  looks  at  the  doors,  looks  at 
the  loggia,  tlicn  turns  to  his  sister. 
Forgive  me!     I  am  not  angry  with  you. 

You  arc  blameless.   ...  A  cruel  destiny 


334  THE     DEAD     CITY 

hangs  over  us;  and  we  must  submit  to  its 
iron  law.  You  are  without  fault.  You 
are  pure;  are  you  not,  sister?  And  you 
will  remain  pure;  you  will  know  no 
shame. 

BiANCA  Maria,  taking  courage  and  throwing 
her  arms  around  his  fteck. 
Yes,  yes,  brother.  Tell  me  what  we 
shall  do.  I  devoted  my  life  to  you  when 
we  were  left  alone  in  the  world;  I  ought 
to  live  for  you  alone,  in  the  future.  Tell 
me  what  we  shall  do!     I  am  ready. 

Leonardo. 
I  shall  tell  you.  .  .  .  But  not  here.  .  .  . 
Shall   we   go   out?    Shall  we  go  and  sit 
down    there   ...    by    the    fountain    of 
Perseus? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Let  us  go  out.  .  .  .  But  down  there  the 
fragrance  of  the  myrtle  is  so  strong  that 
it  made  me  ill  last  night. 


act  fourth,  scene  ii  235 

Leonardo. 
To-night  it  will  not  be  too  powerful,  for 
there    is   a   wind   blowing  that  will  dis- 
perse it. 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Let  us  go. 

Leonardo  seems  unable  to  move,  overcome 
by  excessive  anguish.  He  glances  around 
despairingly^  gazing  at  every  object  as  if 
he,  too,  were  looking  at  it  for  the  last  time. 

Do  you  not  need  ...  to  take  some- 
thing .  .  .  from  your  room?  .  .  .  Do  you 
not  wish  to  cover  your  head? 

Bianca  Maria. 
No,  the  evening  is  warm.     It  is  lighten- 
ing over  toward  the  bay. 

Leonardo,  irresolute. 
Perhaps  ...   it  may  rain.  ... 


336  THE    DEAD     CITY 

BiANCA  Maria. 
May  God  grant  it!     But  there  was  not 
a  cloud  in  the  sky  a  moment  ago. 

Leonardo. 
And  to-day,  do  you  know?  a  procession 
started  from  Fichtia  for  the  chapel  of  the 
prophet  Elijah. 

Bianca  Maria. 
I  heard  the  chanting  in  the  distance. 
.  .  .  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so? 

Leonardo,  trembling. 
I  am  looking  at  your  weary  eyes.  .  .  . 
They  worry  me.  .  .  .  Are  you  sleepy? 

Bianca  Maria. 

No,  I  am  not  sleepy  any  longer.  .  .  . 

I   will    sleep   later    when    everything    is 

settled.  .      .  Let  us  go.     You  must  tell 

me.  .  .  .  But  what  arc  you  thinking  of? 


act  fourth,  scene  ii  237 

Leonardo. 
Of  what  am  I  thinking?     Oh,  a  strange 
reminiscence.  .  .  . 

BiANCA  Maria 
What  reminiscence? 

Leonardo. 
Oh,  nothing  .  .  .  something  childish. 
...  I  was  thinking  of  that  snake-skin  we 
found  on  the  road,  ascending  to  Mycenae 
the  first  time  ...  a  childish  idea.  ...  I 
do  not  know  why  it  came  back  to  my 
mind.   .  .   . 

BiANCA  Maria. 
I  kept  it,  you  know!     I  put  it  between 
the  pages  of  a  book,  like  a  bookmark.  .  .  . 

Leonardo. 
Ah,  you  preserved  it.   .  ,  . 

He  draws  still  nearer  to  his 
sister,  lowering  his  voice. 

Tell  me,   tell  me,  how  long  since  you 
saw  Anna? 


238  THE    DEAD     CITY 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Several  hours. 

Leonardo. 
Is  she  there,  in  her  rooms? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
I  believe  she  is  there. 

Leonardo. 
Has  she  never  spoken  to  you  .  .  .  has 
she   never    spoken    to    you    about   these 
things? 

BiANCA  Maria,  bowing  her  head  in  pain. 
Yes,    yes.  .  .  .  She    knows;    she    suf- 
fers. ... 

Leonardo. 
How  so?     How  did  she  speak  to  you? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
Like   a   sister,   with  the  kindness  of  a 
sister.  .  .  . 


act  fourth,    scene  ii  239 

Leonardo. 
Did  she  forgive  you?    Did  she  kiss  you? 

BiANCA  Maria. 

Yes.  .  .  . 

Leonardo,  trembling,  hesitating. 
And  he  .  .  .  have  you  seen  him  .  .  . 
since  last  night? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
No.  .  .  .   He  is  not  here.  .  .  . 

Leonardo. 
Did  Anna  tell  you  .  .  .  where  he  went? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
To  Nauplia. 

Leonardo. 
When  will  he  return? 

BiANCA  Maria. 
To-night,  perhaps  presently.  .  .  . 

A  paush. 


240  THE     DEAD     CITY 

What  are  you  looking  at  behind  me? 

She  looks  around,  frighte?ied, 
as  if  to  see  if  there  is  someone 
behind  her. 

Leonardo. 
Nothing,    nothing.  ...  It    seemed   to 
me  that    someone    was   about   to    enter 
through  that  door. 

He  points  to  the  door  leading  to 
Anna's  rootns.  Bianca  Maria 
listens. 

Bianca  Maria. 
May  be  Anna  is  coming  now.  .  .  .  Let 

us  go. 

She  takes  her  brother' s  ha?id 
and  begi?is  to  pull  him  toward  the 
door  leading  to  the  stairs. 

Leonardo. 
Is  Anna  coming? 

He  follows  his  sister^  turning 
his  head  around  atid  looking  at 
the  second  door  to  the  left,  which 
opefis. 


ACT    FOURTH,   SCENE    III  241 


SCENE   III 

Anna  appears  on  the  threshold,  followed 
by  The  Nurse. 

Anna. 
Who  is  going  out  through  the  staircase 
door? 

Leonardo  «W  Bianca  Maria 
disappear  witlwut  answering. 

Who  is  it,  nurse? 

The  Nurse. 
The  brother  and  sister. 

Anna. 
Ah,    they   are   going  down  the  stairs. 
.  .  .  Where  are  they  going? 

She  advances  toward  the  door, 
The  Nurse  accompanying  her. 
When  she  arrives  at  the  thresliold, 
she  bends  forward  and  calls  to 
them. 


242  THE    DEAD    CITY 

Bianca  Maria!  Leonardo!  Where  are 
you  going? 

No  0716  amwers. 

Bianca  Maria!  Where  are  you  going? 
Where  are  you  going? 

No  one  amwers. 

Go,  nurse,  run,  overtake  them.  .... 

The  Nurse  goes  out.  The 
bli?id  woman,  seized  by  a  vague 
anxiety^  remains^  listenings  near 
the  door. 

"Where  are  they  going?  They  did  not 
answer.  .  .  .  Yet  they  must  have  heard 
my  voice;  they  had  but  just  descended. 
...  It  looks  as  if  they  were  fleeing.  .  .  . 
Where  to?  .  .  .  How  my  heart  beats! 

She  places  her  hand  over  her 
heart  and  listens  for  The  Nurse's 
return. 


ACT    FOURTH,   SCENE    III  243 

He  is  to  speak  to  me,  to-night  .  ,  .  at 
this  very  hour.  .  .  .  What  will  he  say  to 
me?  It  seems  something  important  nas 
been  resolved  upon.   .   . 

She    hears   the    step    of  The 
Nurse  upon  the  stairs. 

Nurse!     You  return  alone? 

The  Nurse  re-efiters,  breathless. 

I  overtook  them.  .  .  .  They  told  me 
they  were  going  to  the  fountain  .  .  . 
they  would  return  in  a  little  while.  .  .  . 

Anna. 
Did  they  not  hear  me  call  them? 

The  Nurse. 
They  walked  rapidly,  as  if  in  haste. 

Anna. 
Is  it  late?     Is  it  night  yet? 


344  the   dead   city 

The  Nurse. 
One  can  hardly  see.     There  is  a  warm 
wind  blowing,  which  raises  the  dust.     It 
is  lightening  toward  the  sea. 

Anna. 

Is  it  going  to  storm? 

The  Nurse. 
It  is  a  mackerel-sky.  ...   It  is  lighten- 
ing from  a  serene  sky. 

Anna. 
When  will  Alessandro  return? 

The  Nurse. 
This  is  the  hour. 

Anna. 
Let  us  wait. 


ACT    FOURTH,  SCENE    III  245 

The  Nurse  takes  her  to  a  seat 
and  sits  near  her  upon  a  low  stool. 
They  both  remain  silent  for  a  long 
time.  Anna  is  very  alert  and 
stirs  at  every  little  noise. 

Do  you  hear?    Do  you  hear  that  noise? 
Who  is  playing?     It  sounds  like  a  flute. 

The  Nurse. 
'Tis  a  shepherd  passing  by, 

Anna. 

How  sweet  it  sounds.     It  sounds  like 
a  flute. 

The  Nurse. 

It  is  a  flute  made  of  a  reed. 

The  blind  woman  listens  for 
some  time. 

Anna. 

It  is  an  old  melody  which  it  seems  I 
have  heard,  but  I  know  not  when. 


246  THE     DEAD     CITY 

The  Nurse. 
He  has  passed  by  here  at  other  times, 
this  shepherd. 

Anna. 
No,  it  seems  to  me  I  heard  it  at  a 
time  of  which  I  have  no  memory.  .  .  . 
It  is  as  if  you  were  telling  me  now  one  of 
those  old  fables  of  yours,  nurse.  How 
many  things,  how  many  things  there  are 
in  the  sound  of  a  little  reed!  My  heart 
is  full  to  bursting,  nurse,  as  heavy  as  a 
stone.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  that  they  met 
the  shepherd?  I  mean  Bianca  Maria  and 
her  brother. 

The  Nurse. 
May  be  they  did. 

Anna,  anxiously. 
How  did  they  look?     Did  you  look  at 
them  closely?     Did  you   look   into  their 
faces?     How  did  they  look? 


act  i'uurth,  scene  iii  247 

The  Nurse. 
I  hardly  know.  .  .  .   How  should  they 
have  looked? 

Anna. 
Were  they  excited?    Were  they  sad? 

The  Nurse. 
They  looked  as  if  they  were  in  haste. 

Anna. 

But  he,  her  brother.  .  .  .  Did  you  not 
look  him  in  the  face? 

The  Nurse. 
I  did  not  get  near  to  them.     They  kept 
on  walking. 

Anna. 

Which    one   of    the    two   was   walking 
ahead? 


248  the   dead   city 

The  Nurse. 
They  were  holding  each  other's  hands, 
I  believe. 

Anna. 

Ah,  they  held  each  other's  hands.  .  .  . 
And  their  steps  were  firm? 

The  Nurse. 
They  walked  rapidly. 

A  pause.     Anna  is  thoughtful 
and  vigilatit. 

Anna. 
And  Alessandro  does  not  return! 

The  Nurse. 
This  is  the  hour.     He  must  be  nearly 
here. 


ACT    FOURTH,  SCENE   III  349 

Anna,  rising  impatiently. 
Go  out  upon  the  loggia,  nurse,  and  look. 
The  Nurse  obeys. 

The  Nurse. 
What  a  hot  wind!     It  is  as  if  it  came 
from  a  furnace.  ...  I  think  I  see  a  man 
on  horseback  on  the  road.  .  .  . 

Anna,  with  a  start. 
Is  it  Alessandro? 

The  Nurse. 
Yes,   yes,   it  is  the   master.     Here   he 
comes. 

She  descends  the  steps. 

Anna. 
Go,  nurse.     Make  sure  that  everything 
is  ready  in  his  room.     Do  not  come  until 
I  call  you.     Is  there  still  a  little  light 
here? 


250  tHE    DEAD    CITY 

The  Nurse. 
One  can  scarcely  see  any  longer. 

Anna. 
Bring  a  lamp. 

The  Nurse  goes  out  at  the 
left.  Anna  listens  anxiously  for 
the  sound  <?/"  Alessandro's  steps 
on  the  stairs. 


ACT    FOURTH,   SCENE    IV  25 1 


SCENE   IV 

Alessandro  enters.  He  is  so  absorbed  in 
his  painful  thoughts  tJiat  he  does  not  notice 
Anna'  s  presence.  He  goes  toward  his  rooms 
without  speaking. 

Anna. 
Alessandro! 

Alessandro,  startled,  stops. 
You  here,  Anna?    I  did  not  see  you.    It 
is  almost  dark. 

Anna. 
I  was  waiting  for  you. 

Alessandro. 

I  tarried  a  little.     Upon  the  road  the 

wind  raised  such  a  thick  dust  that  it  was 

difficult  to  advance.     It  is  the  hot  breath 

of  the  desert.     Nipht  seems  to  descend 


252  THE     DEAD     CITY 

like  a  fiery  cinder.  .  ,  .  Where    is  Leo- 
nardo? 

Anna. 
He  went  out  a  while  ago  with  his  sister. 

Alessandro,  in  an  unsteady  voice. 
Do  you  not  know  where  he  went? 

Anna. 
He     descended     to     the     fountain    of 
Perseus. 

The  Nurse  enters^  carrying  a 
lighted  lamp,  but  ivhen  she  is 
about  to  place  it  on  the  table,  a 
gust  of  wind  blows  it  out.  The 
door  behind  her  closes  violently. 

The  Nurse. 
Ah,  it  went  out!    I  must  close  the  stair- 
way door.     The  wind  is  rising. 

She  goes  to  close  the  door,  then 
returns  to  the  table  to  light  tlie 
lamp    again.     Anna's    manner 


ACT    FOURTH,    SCENE   IV  253 

expresses  an  u?tdefined  terror.  She 
listens  in  the  direction  of  the  open 
loggia  as  if  to  discover  distant 
cries.  The  Nurse  goes  out  on 
the  left,  closing  the  door  behind 
her, 

Anna. 
Alessandro!     Come  nearer,  listen.   .   .  . 
Alessandro  approaches    her, 
uneasy. 
Do  you  hear  nothing?  Do  you  not  seem 
to  hear  .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
What? 

Anna  does  not  answer. 
It    is    the    wind   whistling  through   the 
openings    in  the  walls    and    beneath   the 
Gate  of  Lions. 

Anna. 
Is  a  storm  brewing? 


254  THE     DEAD     CITY 

Alessandro,  ascending  rapidly  to  the  loggia. 
No.  The  sky  is  entirely  clear.  The 
stars  are  beginning  to  appear.  The  sickle 
of  the  moon  rests  on  the  crest  of  the 
Acropolis.  The  wind  roars  strangely  in 
the  Dead  City,  engulfing  itself,  maybe,  in 
the  cavities  of  the  tombs.  It  sounds  like 
the  roll  of  drums.     Do  you  not  hear  it? 

He  descejids  the  steps.  Anna 
grasps  Ids  arm.,  the  pry  of  an 
unco?iquerable  terror. 

Alessandro. 
What  is  the  matter,  Anna? 

Anna. 
I  am  restless.  ...   I  cannot  overcome 
the  anxiety  that  chokes  my  throat.  .  .  . 
I  think  of  those  two  down  there.  .  .  . 

Alessandro,  in  extreme  excitement,  misun- 
derstandifig  her. 
What?    You    know.    .    .    .    You    know 
about  it?  .   .   .  About  that  terriblr  thing? 


ACT    FOURTH,    SCENE   IV  255 

.  .  .  Who,  who  could  have  told  you.  .  .  . 
Leonardo,  perhaps?  Has  Leonardo 
spoken  to  you?  How  could  he  ...  to 
you.  .  .  . 

Anna,  bewildered. 
Why,  what  do  you  mean?  What  are 
you  thinking  of  ?  .  .  .  No,  no;  he  has  not 
spoken  to  me;  he  has  told  me  nothing. 
.  .  .  I  .  .  .  I  spoke  to  him  last  night, 
here.  ...  I  who  knew,  I  who  knew 
already  .  .  .  oh,  but  without  complaint, 
without  rancor,  Alessandro.   .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
You  spoke  to  him,  of  that  horrible 
thing!  You  had  the  courage  to  speak  to 
him  about  it,  Anna!  But  how?  How  did 
you  know,  tell  me,  how  did  you  know? 
How  have  you  been  able  to  penetrate  his 
secret,  while  even  I,  up  to  last  night, 
entertained  not  a  shadow  of  suspicion! 
Tell  me,  how  did  you  know? 


256  THE     DEAD    CITY 

Anna,  more  and  more  co?ifused. 
His  secret!    What  do  you  mean?    What 
secret?     Of  what  horrible  thing  are  you 
speaking,  Alessandro? 

Alessandro,    realizing   his    mistake,    con- 
founded. 
I  meant  .   .  . 

Anna. 
Is  there  something  else?    Is  there  some- 
thing else? 

Alessandro,  grasping  her  hands  and  con- 
quering with  an  effort  the  emotion  that  suf- 
focates him. 

Listen  to  me,  Anna,  you  who  know 
how  to  bear  any  burden  of  grief,  you  who 
never  have  been  afraid  of  suffering,  and 
who  know  all  the  bitterness  of  life.  We 
have  reached  a  grave  moment,  very 
grave.  A  tearing  whirlwind  is  carrying 
us  to  I  do  not  know  what  destination. 
We  are  the  prey  of  mysterious  and  invin- 


ACT    FOURTH,    SCENE    IV  257 

cible  powers.  You  feel  it,  Anna,  you  feel 
that  a  horrible  knot  has  been  tied  about  us, 
and  that  we  must  cut  it.  We  have  avoided 
speaking  of  it,  up  to  this  moment, 
because  to  me,  as  well  as  to  you,  the 
only  way,  worthy  of  us  and  of  what 
we  have  been,  was  to  accept  the  in- 
evitable in  silence.  But  now  the  catas- 
trophe has  come.  For  each  one  of  us  the 
moment  has  come  to  look  Destiny  in  the 
face.  .  .  .  Closing  the  eyes  avails 
nothing.  Everything  that  is,  is  neces- 
sary. I  demand,  therefore,  of  you,  Anna, 
the  truth.  What  happened  last  night?  I 
demand  the  truth. 

Anna. 
The  truth.  .  .  .  Ah,  it  will  not  profit, 
it  will  not  profit!  There  are  moments  in 
life  when  no  one  knows  which  words  it  is 
better  to  utter,  and  which  it  is  better  to 
bury.  .   .   .  Yesterday  I  asked  Leonardo's 


258  THE    DEAD    CITY 

forgiveness  for  having  spoken,  now  I  ask 
your  forgiveness,  Alessandro.  You  said 
well,  you  said  well,  silence  alone  is 
worthy.  To  harm  no  one,  silence  should 
not  have  been  broken.  But  he  was 
there.  ...  So  many  times,  so  many 
times  1  have  felt  that  he  was  suffering, 
suffering  cruelly.  ...  I  alone  seemed  to 
be  the  cause  of  such  great  agony,  I 
alone  the  encumbrance!  And  I  felt  a 
sisterly  desire  to  comfort  him,  to  do  him 
some  good,  to  show  him  that  everything 
was  understood  and  settled.  .  .  .  And 
last  night,  1  do  not  know  what  despera- 
tion there  was  in  him  when  he  came  near 
me:  I  do  not  know  what  need  of  confi- 
dence. ...  It  seemed  that  he  had  been 
weeping,  that  something  in  his  heart  had 
melted  away.  .  .  .  The  stars  seemed 
beautiful  to  him  once  more.  .  .  .  Then  I 
felt  the  need  of  doing  him  some  good; 
and  I  spoke  to  him.  ...  I  spoke  to  him 


ACT    FOURTH,    SCENE  IV  259 

of  that  poor  creature  and  of  you.  ...  I 
wished  to  drive  out  of  his  soul  all  bitter- 
ness, and  all  the  unjust  rancor  against 
that  dear  girl,  who  possesses  no  other 
fault  save  that  of  loving  and  being  loved. 
.  .  .  And  I  spoke  to  him  of  her,  and  I 
spoke  to  him  of  you,  without  complain- 
ing, without  humiliating  myself,  but 
giving  him  some  hope.  .  .  . 

Alessandro,  entirely  disconcerted. 
Some  hope!  And  he  ...  do  you 
believe  that  he  already  knew?  Did  it 
seem  to  you,  Anna,  that  he  already  knew? 
.  .  .  It  is  impossible!  Impossible!  Only 
a  little  while  before,  he  had  spoken  to 
me.  .  .  . 

Anna,  bewildered. 
He    did    not   know?  .  .  .   He   did    not 
know?  .  .  . 

Thinking  over  his  conversation 
she  seeTns  to  discover  some  clues 


26o  THE     DEAD    CITY 

she  had  not  noticed  before,  and  to 

grasp  the  truth  all  of  a  sudden. 

Her  exclamation  is  like  a  pent  up 

cry. 

Ah,    possibly!  .  .  .   He   spoke   of    not 

understanding.  .  .   .  Yes,    yes.    .  .  .    He 

said,  "Are    you    sure?    Are    you   sure?" 

And  then.   .  .  .  Ah,  but  now?    There  is 

something  else  then,  there  is  something 

else? 

Alessandro  moves  about  the 
room  uncertain^  as  one  wJio  seeks 
a  loophole,  but  does  not  find  it. 

Alessandro,   in  a  low  voice,  speaking  to 
himself. 
After  what  he  had  revealed  to  me!  .  .  . 

Anna. 
Tell  me  the  truth  now,  Alessandro!     I 
demand  the  truth  of  you. 

Alessandro,  re-approaching  her. 
And  what  did  he  do?      What  did  he  do 
then?    Where  did  he  go? 


act  fourth,  scene  iv  26 1 

Anna. 
He  ran  out,  he  fled.  ...  I  know  from 
his  sister  that  he  came  back  this  morning 
at   dawn.  .  .  .  She  had  waited   for  him 
until  then.  .   .   . 

Alessandro. 
Flight,  flight.  ...   It  seems  there  is  no 
other  way  but  flight.  .  .  . 

He  moves  about  uncertain^  not 
knowing  what  decision  to  make. 

Ah,  when  will  we  look  into  each  other's 
eyes  again.  .  .  . 

Anna,  pressing. 
But  tell  me  the  truth  nowl 

Alessandro. 
And  they  have  gone  out  together.  .  .  . 
They   went   down  to  the    fountain.  .  . 
How  long  ago? 

Anna. 
A  few  moments  before  you  came  back. 


262  THE    DEAD    CITY 


Alessandro. 
Together   .    .    .    together    .    .    .    down 
yonder.  .  .  . 

His  excitement  increases  from 
moment  to  mome?it. 
And   they  were  here  with  you  before 
going?  .  .  .  What  did  they  say? 

Anna. 

No,  I  entered  as  they  were  descending 
the  stairs.  ...  I  called  after  them,  they 
did  not  answer.  ...  I  sent  nurse  to  over- 
take them.  .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
And  then? 

Anna. 
They  told  her  they  were  going  down 
to  the  fountain  for  a  while,  to  return  pres- 
ently. .  .  .  But  tell  me,  tell  me!  .  .  . 

She  grasps  Alessandro  by  the 
arm  as  he  is  about  to  ascend  to  the 
loggia.  They  asccTid  thus  to- 
gether and  separate  in  the  shade, 


ACT    FOURTH,    SCENE   IV  263 

toward  the  balustrade.  After  a 
few  moments  Alessandro  comes 
back  alone.  Obeying  an  i7istinc- 
tive  impulse,  he  runs  to  the  door, 
opens  it  and  descends  the  stairs 
precipitately.  The  blind  woman 
appears  between  the  columns, 
seized  with  terror  when  she  starts 
to  follow  her  husband. 
Alessandro!     Alessandro! 

No  one  answers.  She  gropes 
about  in  the  air  and  encounters  one 
of  the  columns  ;  supporting  herself 
by  thai,  she  descends  the  first  step, 
then  the  others. 
Alessandro!  .  .  .  He  is  no  longer  here. 

.  .  .  I    am   alone.   .  .  .  Ah,  Lord!    Give 

me  light! 

Following  the  liot  current  of  the 
wind,  which  enters  through  the 
the  wide-open  door,  she  reaches 
the  threshold;  holding  to  ofie  of 
the  door  jambs  she  makes  one  step 
toward  the  stairway,  and  disap- 
pears in  the  dark. 


ACT  FIFTH 


ACT   FIFTH 

A  wild  and  lonely  spot  in  a  hollow  which 
forms  between  the  minor  horn  of  the  mxmntain 
of  Euboea  aTid  the  ifiaccessible  side  of  the  cita- 
del. Myrtles  grow  luxuriantly  between  the 
rough  rocks  and  cyclopic  ruins.  The  water 
of  the  fountain  of  Perseus,  gushing  forth  from 
between  the  rocks,  gathers  in  a  shell-like  cav- 
ity, out  of  which  it  runs,  to  lose  itself  through 
the  stony  ground.  In  the  ancient  solitude, 
already  wrapped  in  the  mystery  of  flight,  is 
heard  the  ceaseless  gurgling  of  the  springs. 


a67 


ONLY  SCENE 

Near  the  edge  of  the  fountain^  at  the  foot  of 
a  bush  of  myrtle,  lies  the  corpse  of  Bianca 
Maria,  supine,  rigid,  chaste.  Her  wet  gar- 
ments cling  to  the  body  ;  her  hair,  soaked  with 
zvater,  covers  her  face  in  broad  bands ;  her 
arms  are  stretched  by  her  sides ;  her  feet  'are 
joi?ied  together  like  the  feet  of  the  statues  upo?i 
ancient  tombs.  Alessandro,  seated  upon  a 
rock,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his 
temples  pressed  betweefi  his  hands,  looks  fix- 
edly at  the  dead  girl,  silent  in  frightful  im- 
mobility. Upon  the  opposite  side  Leonardo 
stands,  leaning  against  a  great  rock,  which 
he  clutches  from,  time  to  time  with  his  fingers, 
convulsively  and  in  despair,  as  the  fingers  of 
a  shipwrecked  sailor  clutch  the  rock  emerging 
out  of  the  abyss.  In  the  deathlike  silence  is 
heard  the  gurgling  of  the  water  and  the  inter - 
mittent  soughing  of  the  wind  in  the  bending 
myrtles.  Suddenly  Leonardo  moves  azvay 
from  the  rock,  and  kneels  by  the  side  of  the 
corpse  of  his  sister,  bending  over  as  if  to  touch 
her. 


268 


ACT    FIFTH,   ONLY    SCENE  269 


Alessandro,    stopping  him  with  a    quick 
gesture  and  an  imperious  cry. 

Do  not  touch  her!     Do  not  touch  her! 

Leonardo,  drawing  back,  without  rising. 
No,  no,  I  will  not  touch  her.  .  .  .  She  is 
yours,  she  is  yours.  .  .  . 

A  pause.  He  looks  at  the 
corpse  with  superhuman  i?ite?isity 
of  grief  and  love,  A  delirium 
seems  to  assail  him.  His  voice  is 
by  turns  hoarse  atid  piercing., 
almost  unrecognizable. 

Do  you  believe,  do  you  believe.  ...  I 
should  profane  her  if  I  touched  her?  .  .  . 
No,  no.  .  .  .  Now  I  am  pure:  I  am  wholly 
pure.  ...  If  she  should  rise,  she  could 
walk  upon  my  soul  as  upon  the  immacu- 
late snow.  ...  If  she  could  revive,  all 
my  thoughts  of  her  would  be  like  the 
lilies,   like  the  lilies.  .  .  .  Ah,  who  will 


27©  THE    DEAD     CITY 

be  able  to  tell  upon  this  earth  of  loving  a 
human  creature  as  I  love  her?  Not  even 
you,  not  even  you  love  her  as  I  do!  .  .  . 
No  love  equals  mine,  upon  this  earth. 
.  .  .  All  my  soul  is  a  heaven  for  her  de- 
parted spirit.   .   .  . 

His  voice,  impetuous  and 
ardent,  rises  like  a  delirium  that 
increases,  and  falls  with  a  thrill  of 
supreme  tenderness. 

Who,  who  would  have  done  for  her 
what  I  did?  Would  you  have  had  the 
courage  to  accomplish  this  atrocity,  to 
save  her  soul  from  the  horror  which  was 
about  to  overwhelm  it?  Ah,  you  loved 
her,  you  loved  her  with  all  the  strength  of 
your  life,  because  she  had  fo  be  loved  in 
that  way,  but  you  do  not  know,  you  do 
not  know  what  a  soul  she  possessed.  .  .  . 
All  the  gifts  of  the  earth  and  all  its  beau- 
ties— beauties  of  which  you  have  never 
even   dreamed! — were    in    her  soul.  .  .  . 


ACT    FIFTH,    ONLY    SCENE  17 1 

It  seemed  that  every  morning  when  she 
awoke,  all  the  breezes  of  spring  passed 
over  her  soul,  andsoftened  it  and  made  it 
bloom.  ...  It  seemed  every  night  as  if 
the  sweetest  things  of  the  day  remained 
in  her  soul,  and  she  mixed  and  prepared 
them  for  me,  offering  them  to  me  as  one 
offers  a  loaf  of  bread.  .  .  .  Ah,  thus, 
thus,  for  a  long  time  she  has  nourished 
me;  with  this  bread  she  nourished  me  at 
the  close  of  my  every  day.  .  .  .  She 
knew  how  to  change  the  slightest  smile 
into  great  felicity.  .  .  .  The  smallest  of 
my  joys  expanded  infinitely  in  her  soul, 
infinitely,  like  a  circle  in  calm  water, 
until  it  gave  me  the  illusion  of  a  great 
happiness.  .  .  .  Ah,  you  do  not  know, 
you  do  not  know  what  a  soul  she  pos- 
sessed. .  .  .  No  other  creature  could  be 
her  equal,  on  this  earth.  .  .  .  There  was 
not  a  single  bitter  drop  in  all  her  blood. 
...  A  while  ago.   .   .  . 


372  THE    DEAD     CITY 

He  interrupts  himself,  starting 
like  a  sick  man,  whose  muscles 
twisted  by  intolerable  spasms. 

....  A  while  ago  ...  all  her  tender 
life  was  trembling  in  her  hair  under  my 
hand.  .  .  . 

He  trembles  so  violently,  lying 
on  the  ground,  that  Alessandro 
rises  and  attempts  to  go  to  him, 
but  he  seems  u?iable  to  move,  and 
falls  back  upon  his  stone. 

Ah,  when  she  bent  over  the  water  to 
drink  ...  I  heard  the  first  draught  flow 
down  her  throat.  ...  It  seemed  to  me 
that  she  drank  out  of  my  heart,  that  in 
that  draught  passed  away  all  the  pain 
suffered,  the  whole  shameful  condition, 
all  knowledge,  all  memory,  my  entire 
being.  .  .  .  Empty,  empty  I  was,  and 
blind  when  I  threw  myself  upon  her. 
.  .  .  Death  was  riding  my  shoulders  and 
pressing    me    with    his     knees   of    iron. 


ACT    FIFTH,    ONLY    SCENE  273 

.  .  .  The  world  was  destroyed.  .  .  . 
A  thousand  centuries  ...  a  second. 
.  .  .  And  I  was  there  upon  the  stones 
.  .  .  And  in  the  water,  still  agitated 
from  the  plunge,  her  hair  .  .  .  the 
hair  around  her  head,  half  immersed, 
.  •.  .  Ah,  who,  who  would  have  done  for 
hcF  what  I  did?  ...  I  raised  her,  I  saw 
her  face  again.  .  .  .  "All  her  face  en- 
circled by  her  hair,  beat  like  a  violent 
pulse" — thus,  thus,  Anna  spoke  last 
night:  she  who  had  held  it  in  her  hands, 
who  had  felt  it  throb  between  her  fingers; 
and  I  saw  her  face  again,  which  no  longer 
pulsated,  her  cold  face  dripping  with 
water.  ...  I  lowered  her  eyelids  over 
her  eyes.  .  .  .  Ah,  sweeter  than  a  flower 
upon  a  flower.  .  .  .  And  every  stain 
has  disappeared  from  my  soul,  I  have 
become  pure,  all  pure.  All  the  holiness 
of  my  first  love  has  returned  to  my  soul 
like  a  torrent  of  light.  .  .   .  Another  gift 


274  THE     DEAD     CITY 

from  her,  another  gift  from  her,  through 
death.  ...  To  be  able  to  love  her  again 
thus,  I  killed  her.  In  order  that  you 
might  love  her  thus  under  my  eyes,  you, 
no  longer  separated  from  me,  you,  with- 
out further  cruelty  and  without  further 
remorse— for  this,  for  this  I  killed  her. 
.  .  .  O  my  brother,  O  my  brother  in  life 
and  in  death,  reunited  to  me,  forever 
reunited  to  me  by  this  sacrifice  that  I 
made  for  you.  .  .  .  Look  at  her!  Look 
at  her!  She  is  perfect;  now  she  is  per- 
fect. Now  she  may  be  adored  as  a  being 
divine.  ...  In  the  deepest  of  my  sepul- 
chres I  will  place  her  and  around  her  I 
will  put  all  my  treasures.  .  .  .  For  you, 
for  you,  all  that  which  is  resplendent,  for- 
ever for  you  all  that  which  is  pure.  .  .  . 
Beloved!  Beloved!  If  we  could  but 
relight,  for  one  instant,  with  all  our 
blood,  your  pallid  face,  that  you  might 
open,  for  one  instant,  your  eyes,  that  you 


ACT    FIFTH,    ONLY    SCENE  275 

might  see  us,  that  you  might  hear  our  cry 
of  love  and  grief  .  .  .  Sister!     Sister! 

He  bends  over  the  dead  body, 
calling  her  with  a  repeated  heart- 
rending cry^  streUhing  his  trem- 
bling hands  out  toward  the  pallid 
face,  which  rests^  motionless^  under 
the  wet  strands  of  hair.  Unable 
to  resist  that  cry^  Alessandro 
rises,  passes  before  the  feet  of  the 
corpse,  goes  near  his  friend,  stoops 
and  places  a  hand  upon  his  fore- 
head to  feel  his  fever ^  to  calm  the 
delirium  that  seems  the  beginning 
of  madness.  Leonardo,  at  the 
contact,  shows  some  relief.  His 
contracted  nerves  relax  a  little  ;  his 
voice  falls. 

Let  me  kiss  her  feet,  her  little  feet. 

He  drags  himself  to  the  feet  of 
the  dead  girl,  bows  his  head  and 
remains  thus  for  some  time.  Al- 
essandro also  prostrates  himself 
next  to  him.  During  this  pause 
(he   sighing  of  the  fountain  is 


a?^  THE    DEAD     CITY 

heard.   Leonardo  raises  his  head 

and  remuins  with  eyes  fixed  on 

the  motionless  feet. 
One  day  she  was  on  the  shore  of  the 
sea,  seated  upon  the  sand,  with  her  knees 
under  her  chin;  and  dreaming  her  beauti- 
ful dreams,  she  enveloped  her  supple 
feet,  like  two  tender  leaves,  in  her  flow- 
ing tresses.  The  sea  was  sleeping  be- 
fore her  like  an  innocent  child,  lightly 
breathing.  .  .  . 

A  pause.      He  shivers,  struck 

by  another  remembrance. 

Ah,     that     cursed     day,     before     the 


fire. 


He   covers  his  face   with  his 
hands,    and  betids  again  to  the 
earth. 
Forgive!     Fogivel 

A  pause.  Alessandro,  dis- 
turbed, turns  toward  the  rock  in 
the  background,  where  the  path 
opens. 


ACT    FIFTH,   ONLY    SCENE  277 

Alessandro,  rising  suddenly  to  his  feet. 
A  step!     I   seem  to  hear  a  step   down 
yonder,  upon  the  path.  .   .   .   Listen! 

Leonardo  also  rises  to  his  feet^ 
terrified.      Both  listen,  breathless. 

No.      Perhaps    I    was    mistaken.  .  .  . 
May  be  it  was  the  wind  in  the  myrtles. 
Some    stone    may     have    rolled 
down.  .  .  . 

Leonardo. 
I   do  not  know.  .  .  .  My  heart   beats 
so,    it    deafens   my   ears.    ...    I    hear 
nothing  more.  ... 

Alessandro  goes  to  the  rock  in 
the  background  and  spies.  Only 
the  faint  gurgling  of  the  water  is 
heard. 

Alessandro  turns    to  his  friend.,    who  is 
looking  fixedly  at  the  corpse,  and  shakes 
him. 
What  shall  we  do  now?    We  must  carry 

her  away  from  here.  .  .  .  Where  shall  we 


278  THE     DEAD     CITY 

take  her?  Shall  we  carry  her  into  the 
house  now?  And  Anna  .  .  .  Anna  .  .  . 
What  shall  we  tell  her? 

Leonardo,  bewildered,  looking  around. 

Anna  .  .  .  Anna  .  .  .  she  is  waiting  for 
me,  at  this  hour.  .  .  .  she  promised  me 
.  .  .  she  promised  .  .  .  last  night.  .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
What  did  she  promise  you? 

Leonardo. 
To  wait  for  me,  to  wait  for  me.  .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
To  wait  for  you?    Where?    What  for? 

Leonardo. 
She  thought  .  .  .  she  wished.  .  .  . 

Alessandro. 
She  wished  what?  .  .  . 


act  fifth,  only  scene  279 

Leonardo. 
She  wished  to  go  away  ...  to  disap- 
pear. .  .  . 

Alessandro. 

Ah! 

A  pause.      Both  look  instinc- 
tively toward  the  path  between  the 
the  rocks  in  the  background.    The 
murmuring   of  the  fountain    is 
heard. 
What  shall  we  tell  her?    What  shall  we 
do,  now?  .  .  .    Do   you   wish   to   remain 
here?  ...  I    am   going  .  .  .  going  .  .  . 
to  get  .  .  .  the  shroud.  .  .  . 

Leonardo,  stricken  with   unconquerable 

terror. 
No,  no,  do  not  go,  do  not  leave  me. 
.  .  .  Let  us  remain  here,  let  us  stay! 

Alessandro. 
But  Anna  .  .  .  Anna.  .  .  . 

He  starts  and  listens. 


THE     DEAD     CITY 


Some  one  is  coming,  some  one  is 
approaching.  ...  A  step,  I  heard  a  step. 
.  Ah,  if  it  were.  .  .  .  We  must  hide 
her.  .  .  .  Let  us  carry  her  over  there, 
between  the  myrtles,  in  the  thicket.  .  .  . 
Leonardo,  do  you  not  hear  me? 

He  shakes  Leonardo,  who 
seems  petrified. 

Let  us  carry  her  over  there,  between 
the  myrtles.  ...  I  will  take  her  by  the 
shoulders.  .  .  .  Gently!     Gently! 

He  leans  over  the  upper  part  of 
the  body,  while  Leonardo  stoops 
over  to  raise  the  lower  limbs. 
At  this  mome?it  the  voice  of  the 
bliiid  woman  is  heard  in  the 
path. 


Anna,  between  the  rocks,  in  the  background^ 
still  invisible. 

Bianca  Maria!     Bianca  Marial 


ACT    FIFTH,  ONLY    SCENE  281 

The  two  men  let  go  of  the 
corpse  ;  they  rise^  deadly  pale ^  un- 
able to  move,  terrified. 

Bianca  Maria! 

The  blind  woman  appears  be- 
tween the  rocks,  alone,  groping 
her  way  in  the  shade.  As  no 
one  answers.,  she  takes  a  few  steps 
forward,  with  despairing  anxiety. 

Alessandro!     Leonardo! 

She  adva7ices  toward  the  corpse, 
and  almost  touches  it  with  her 
foot.  The  tzvo  men  stand.,  unable 
to  make  a  gesture  or  to  utter  a 
word. 

Alessandro,  at  the  moment  in  which  Anna's 
foot  is  about  to  touch  the  corpse. 

Stop!     Stop!     Anna! 

Anna  has,  however,  already 
felt  the  lifeless  body  against  her 
feet.     She  stoops  over  the  dead 


i^a  THE    DEAD    CITY 


giri,  utterly  distracted,  feeling 
about  until  she  reaches  the  face 
and  the  hair,  still  wet  with  the 
death-giving  water.  She  shud- 
ders from  head  to  foot  at  the 
clammy  touch,  then  utters  a  pierc- 
ing shriek  in  which  she  seems  to 
exhale  her  soul. 

Anna. 
Ah.  .      .  I  see!     I  see! 

FINIS 


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